Ticking Crocodile
by darcyfarrow
Summary: Peeps-loving pixies, an island of shifting geography, a control freak Pan, a guy-liner-wearing pirate, and surfer dudes are all in a day's headaches for the crew as they set out to rescue Henry. In the Enchanted Forest of yore, a blood transfusion for a lost traveler produces a strange after-effect for Belle that may save Gold's soul in present-day Neverland. A tiny bit spoiler-y.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N. This story is based on a remark made at Comic Con, that while Rumple is in Neverland, he'll find a surprising way to communicate with Belle. Considering that in 26 stories, I've only had 1 correct guess (David's first name-but I think I'll be proven right in the guess I made in "Saved by Zero" that Belle will become mayor), I'm probably wrong about the means for that communication, but I have a hunch I'll be right about the purpose: to keep Rumple from doing something awful. **

**The title comes from _Peter Pan_: "I suppose it's like the ticking crocodile, isn't it? Time is chasing after all of us."**

* * *

_In the Enchanted Forest, Pre-Curse_

Legend had it that the first pixie was the creation of a union between an imp and a fairy. Rumplestiltskin had made quite a study of the science of magic, and he knew that this theory was genetically possible, although untested in his time, for the imp species was nearly wiped out a century ago when ogres developed a taste for the tangy, though stringy, imp flesh. In his opinion, it was just as well that the world was unlikely to ever find out what happens when imps and fairies breed: the poor child would be both hideous in its appearance and highly conflicted in its morals.

Rumplestiltskin, though he believed himself to be a genetic cocktail of human, imp and something entirely singular that he simply labeled "Dark," found his sympathies in those days generally lay with the imp side of his nature. The more years that had passed since he acquired the Dark curse, and more importantly, since Bae left, leaving Rumplestiltskin to live alone and isolated from all society, the less human he felt himself to be. Certainly, the scaly green-gold skin and the reptilian gold eyes that glared back him when he happened to catch his reflection in a pail of water more closely resembled imp than man, and when he walked through marketplaces, villagers never remarked upon the strange _man_ in their midst, only the strange "creature": he was perceived, and he knew it, as something subhuman, though his immortality and magic were considered superhuman.

Whatever species others thought him to be, however he chose to self-identify, he knew one thing for sure: his kind must not mix with fairies, not socially, not commercially, and most definitely, never ever romantically. The very thought of an imp and a fairy. . . commingling. . .took him right off his feed and he had to reach for the seltzer water.

And that was in part why Rumplestiltskin had little truck with pixies. Fortunately for him, they had never populated the lands that he frequented, preferring the Shifting Territories, those regions, like Neverland, whose geographic elements change at whim and without warning: mountains will suddenly rise literally from molehills, dense jungles vanish overnight and pasturelands appear in their place, ships being instantly grounded when the ancient ocean upon which they were sailing suddenly turns to desert. Why these changes happen in some lands but not most, no one has figured out, but Rumple suspected the pixies were behind it: inconsistent, unpredictable, and easily bored, they'd been observed using their magic simply for their own amusement, without regard to the cost or the outcome (all of which, again, made Rumple run for the seltzer).

Rumple hated fairies, everything about them, but most especially their meddling in human affairs and their lack of marketplace sense (what moron would give away magic at no charge when he/she knows that magic must be paid for, and that, if not paid for upfront, magic will extract its own, much higher price, later?). He hated fairies in every way imaginable: intellectually, morally and physically (their scent aggravated his sinuses and prolonged exposure would make him break out in hives, not a pleasant picture for a creature whose skin was already scaly). But most of all he hated them emotionally, for they very nearly lacked emotion: they were capable of feeling only a wing-thin kind of compassion for other beings and only a shimmery, pastel-rainbow kind of happiness, never jealousy, never envy, never rage, never possessiveness, never depression

. . . never gut-wrenching grief like that a father feels when his son vanishes forever into a void.

As much as he hated fairies, he hated their lookalike cousins even more, for although they have a broader range of emotions, and stronger feelings, their single motivation in life is to have fun, and short-range fun at that: they don't plan and they don't consider consequences. He not only hated pixies; he downright despised them.

And then Belle came along.

O_n the Jolly Roger, Present Time_

All this said, it's now possible to understand, and perhaps sympathize with, Rumplestiltskin's feelings when the _Jolly Roger_ floats into Nibs Lagoon on the northernmost point of Neverland (for the moment, anyway, though who knows if the lagoon will be here tomorrow). For, the instant Hook drops anchor, the night sky lights up with tiny, zipping-around, multicolored lights, and Rumple's sinuses clog and his skin, though by all appearances entirely human now, begins to itch.

"How beautiful," Snow gushes. She comes to Rumple's side at the bow of the ship, and the light display speaks to the little girl in her, the child who delighted in butterflies and fireflies and dragonflies. Enchanted, she stretches out a hand toward one of the blue-yellow blinking lights, until Rumple slaps her wrist.

"Pixies," he grunts. "They bite."

David comes to her side, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword, riding on his hip. Although Snow scoffs, "Oh, don't be silly," Rumple nods his approval of the prince's precaution. Emma, hands in her pockets, joins them.

"He's right," Hook calls out, locking down the wheel. "Nasty little bugs, they are. Their saliva is an irritant, like a mosquito's. And they steal, lie and cheat. They're not to be trusted, no matter how much they blink their pretty eyes and bat their long lashes."

"Oh, they're mini-pirates, then," David smirks.

"Don't flatter them."

"For once, I believe you." Regina comes up behind Hook. She runs her hands up and down her arms. "I can feel the magic rolling off of them. It's like. . . cat dander."

"Unfortunately, we have to deal with them," Hook says. "They're the newsboys—or rather, newsgirls—of Neverland. They'll know where Pan is and what he's up to."

"Before they get any closer." Rumple indicates the captain's hook. "Do you mind if I disguise that? Just in case they've heard of you."

Hook glares at the mage. "Why not? You made me what I am." He raises his arm, allowing Rumple to change the hook into a hand. "Here they come. This is more in your line of work. I usually just take what I want: I don't have to deal for it. Do you speak Pixish?"

Rumple wrinkles his nose. "It's a blend of Fairy and Mer, so I suppose I could get by in an emergency, but not sufficiently for the fine art of negotiation."

"Then I'll translate."

"Wait." Emma grabs Rumple's arm. "You trust him not to throw us to the dogs?"

"What choice do we have?" Rumple winces as though he's just swallowed a mosquito, then rearranges his features into something neutral. He picks each word carefully, pausing and nodding periodically to Hook to allow the pirate to make the translation. "Good evening, o bright and beauteous denizens of Neverland. Adventurers are we; as you can see, we have come from a far-away land, dull and uninspiring in comparison to this one. We seek only a few days' adventure before we move on. We humbly ask your permission to disembark, so that we may admire this amazing island. We will take nothing that you have not granted us permission to take, we will harm nothing that does not harm us, and we will leave gifts in gratitude for your hospitality."

Hook makes sounds that mix the tinkle of bells with the whir of a dentist's drill, and one of the lights moves in closer, glowing brighter, becoming larger. Squinting, Rumple can make out the tiny being in the center of the light: she's smaller than a fairy, though he knows that can change if she wishes it; she has two long wings compared to her fairy cousins' four, and her ears are pointed like an elf's. He sees nothing in her to suggest imp genetics. She responds to the greeting with similar sounds, though more flute-like than Hook's.

"She says her name is Princess Sabina. The queen will be out there somewhere," Hook studies the shoreline. "Listening but hiding until her guards have determined it's safe." He bows to the being that's hovering just above the railing, within reach of David's sword. "She bids us welcome—though she's reserved about it. Doesn't trust us yet. She asks our business here."

"Adventure only."

"Aye, good choice. Pixies understand the call to adventure better than any other impulse." Hook translates, then glances at Rumple. "We should give them those gifts now. What've you got in mind?"

Rumple spreads his hand flat, and a satin bag with a velvet drawstring appears in his palm. All the little lights move in closer and shine brighter as they wait to see what's in the bag. His magic unties the drawstring, the bag gaps open and something small wrapped in foil rises from the opening. The foil slowly unwraps itself to reveal the treasure it's been protecting.

"Toffees!" Snow exclaims.

Magic carries the unwrapped treat to the railing, where it comes to rest beside the pixie princess. It's half as big as she is. She pokes at it, sniffs, then carries her finger to her mouth for a taste, and her aura flares like a sunburst and she chatters excitedly. Other pixies dash in, tearing off handfuls of the candy and stuffing them into their mouths.

"Well done, mate," Hook mutters. "Pixies know nothing about gold or silver, but they do appreciate sweets."

"Tell her we have many more bags of this delicacy that we have brought from a land far, far away, and we will consider it an honor if she'll accept them as our gift. And then tell her we have something we think her tribe will love even more, that we would like to offer in trade." Rumple sets the satin bag down on the railing and opens his palm again, this time producing a Peeps marshmallow chick.

No translation is needed for the "ooooh" that the entire squad of pixies exhales. They rush forward for handfuls of marshmallow.

Emma nudges Rumple with her elbow. "Gold! You old sweetie, you!"

He winks at her. "Just wait 'til I get to the ice cream."

The pixie princess swipes at the eager hands of her fellow guards and snaps an order at them: it's too soon to taste this new treat; the bargaining hasn't begun yet. They hang their heads but flitter backwards, casting longing glances at the chick. Sabina speaks and Hook translates, "Let's deal, human."

Rumple smiles a little at the appellation: _human_, she thinks he is. Well, in his Storybrooke form, he supposes he is more human than imp (though he'd have to think a long time before he could determine just how much Dark remains in him). "Thank you, Princess." He sweeps an elegant bow, although he stumbles near the end of it, having forgotten about his bad ankle. "May I introduce myself and my fellow adventurers?"

He pauses for just a moment, pondering which name to give: "Gold" would have no meaning to the pixies, and would raise no suspicion, but neither would it convey the extent of his powers. "Rumplestiltskin" is known here, both through legend and through history, for he journeyed here once before in his search for Bae. The trip had proven unsuccessful, of course, but at that time, he made no enemies among the pixies or the Indians—only among Pan's Lost Boys.

At the time of his visit, a century ago, the pixies had been reluctant allies of the Lost Boys: co-combatants in the war against pirates and occasional partners in adventure, but there was always tension caused by Pan's greed and demand for obedience. If the pixies' magic or leadership has weakened over the years, Pan may have made slaves of them.

Since that time, Rumple has encountered pixies—or rather, one pixie—on one other occasion, a few years before Regina cast the Final Curse. Nervously, he now searches the faces of the nearby pixies, but he doesn't see her among them. Maybe she was from another tribe, another land. Maybe.

He doesn't know how much international communication takes place among this species, but he'll take no chances that his true name is known here. "I am called Gold, and these are my friends." He introduces each in turn, though he sort of mumbles through Regina's name, just in case she's become the subject of international legend too, and he uses "Captain Jones" instead of "Hook."

"You know if they find out you lied to them," Hook mutters behind his new hand, "we're in a lot of trouble." But he smiles at Sabina and makes his translations.

"'Ask your questions, Gold, and then we will determine the price of the answers,'" Hook interprets for the pixies.

"Here goes." Rumple sucks in a breath. "We seek no trouble. In fact, we would prefer to steer clear of Him while we're here. So our first question concerns His whereabouts—so that we can avoid Him."

The princess paces the railing, considering the question. She stops and asks, "What else do you want to know?"

"As you know, the Lost ones came here from other lands. Voluntarily, of course," Rumple adds hastily, though it's a lie, "and we wouldn't dream of interfering with their happiness here. But we believe there may be, among them, a lad who came. . . by accident. Who. . . fell. From our ship, and may have washed ashore a short time ago. If so, we seek his return. He needs to be with us. This," Rumple touches Emma's shoulder, "is his mother. The rest of us are his. . . tribe. And we love him very much." The pixies know something about mothers from watching animals, but the concept of family is foreign to them. The concept of love is not.

The princess' light flickers for just a second, and Hook and Rumple exchange an understanding glance. "Suppose such a thing occurred," the princess says. "Suppose the fallen one came ashore and has found a home here, a new tribe, with whom he's happier."

"Then," Rumple throws a warning glare at the Charmings. "Then, after we spoke to him, to wish him happiness, we would leave without him."

David's knuckles whiten as he grips the sword tighter, and Snow chews her lip. But Emma merely raises her chin and adds, "It's his decision." Rumple surreptitiously squeezes her hand in gratitude for backing him up.

"Suppose," Sabina continues, "the fallen one wants to return to you, but his new tribe doesn't want to let him go."

"We will. . . do what we must, but no more, to release him."

"You will fight for him?" the princess asks. "Kill for him?"

"Fight. I don't think killing will be necessary." To illustrate his point, Rumple calls his magic to his fingertips. When his hand burns with a blue light, he raises it, and from the sea a swordfish emerges, reeled in by the magic. Rumple spins his finger around, and the swordfish pirouettes; he lowers his hand and the fish drops into the sea.

Sabina watches with arms folded. When the ripples in the water have subsided, she snaps, "Too bad."

Rumple blinks. "What?"

Hook shrugs. "I translated it right. She said, 'Too bad.'"

Regaining his composure, Rumple waits. The princess elucidates: "You, pirate: can you, at least, kill?"

Flabbergasted, Hook opens and closes his mouth. His answer comes at the pitch of fingernails scraping across a chalkboard. The princess nods thoughtfully and resumes her pacing.

"What did you say?" Rumple hisses.

"I said I'm a pirate. Fighting, and sometimes killing, comes with the profession."

"You just cooked our goose," Regina grumbles.

The princess speaks again. "You, pirate: will you lead your tribe, then?"

As Hook smirks, Rumple intervenes. "Is that a condition of our bargain?"

"It is."

"Do we understand you correctly, Your Highness?" Rumple asks. "Are you testing our resolve, to see how much we love our child? Or do you _want_ blood to be shed?"

Sabina flies at Rumple, pausing when she's eye to eye with him. "The terms of our bargain, Gold: we will help you to recover your fallen one, if you will kill Pan."

"Crap on a cracker," Emma mutters, and David whistles in amazement. Snow says, "Now wait a minute."

But Rumple addresses the princess directly, and she seems to understand his body language if not the words. "We have a deal." He holds his hand out and another bag of toffees appears.

The princess studies him a moment, then says something over her shoulder. Her squad swoops in, pulling the bag open and dragging out the candy.

"And some more of those squishy ones." Sabina points to the Peep.

"Allow me," Emma volunteers, and she stares hard at the railing. Nothing happens.

"Emma, stop thinking," Rumple reminds her.

"Taste the marshmallow," Regina suggests. "Feel it melt on your tongue."

A row of pink Peeps appears, neatly lined up on the railing. Emma sighs in relief.

As the pixies dive in to tear the candy chicks apart, the princess decides. "We have a deal, humans."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Hands on her hips, Regina waggles her head back and forth. "Hook, our leader? I don't think so!" Defiantly, she snaps her fingers in the air and little purple lighting bolts issue from her manicured nails.

Snow chips in, "For once, I agree with you." The snapping fingers catch her eye and she can't help but reach out, steadying Regina's hand so she can admire the nails. "Oh, your nails are _perfect_, Regina! That color matches your lipstick exactly. How do you keep your nails so long? Mine chip so easily."

"They are nice, aren't they?" Regina flutters her fingers, admiring the paint job. "Sharon from the Shangri La Spa does my manicures. And the secret is vitamin E, keeps the nails from breaking."

"Sharon! Yes, I know her. I've always gone to Lula—"

"Oh no, dear," Regina clicks her tongue and takes Snow's hand, surveying the nails critically. "You've got to switch to Sharon. Make an appointment as soon as we get back—you've got a nail emergency here. Just tell her I—"

They are interrupted by a shrill whistle, and both dark heads turn to find a scowling Emma with her fingers shoved between her lips. "That's enough for the girl talk! Geesh, we got pixies flying around everywhere, we got Lost Boys out there who'd as soon bash our skulls in as say hello, and who knows where Henry is and what they're doing to him?"

Regina and Snow hang their heads shamefully and mutter an apology. Hook points up to the aforementioned pixies, then blinks and stares at his own fingernails.

"Oh no, not you too," David grumbles. "Isn't the guy-liner enough? You got to fuss over your fingernails too?"

Blushing, Hook shoves his hand into his coat pocket. "Course not!" he barks. "It's just weird, that's all, without my hook." He glares at Rumple. "I wish you'd change it back."

"That trademark you're so proud of, dearie, could be the death of us," Rumple grunts. "Rest assured, as soon as we have Henry on board, I'll give you back your hook." Under his breath he adds, "Right between your shoulder blades."

Emma whistles again, and when the two pairs of mortal enemies stare at her, she throws her hands in the air. "Henry?" she asks in a demanding tone.

"Yeah. Henry. As I was saying." Hook points at the sky again. "You were asking who knows where Henry is. They do."

"So stop wasting time and ask them already," David suggests.

Rumple grins maliciously. "Tick tock, dearie. Tick tock."

"Shut up before I go all Crocodile Dundee on your ass," Hook growls.

Snow shakes her head pitifully. "Oh, Killian, for shame. You've been watching late-night TV, haven't you?"

Hook shrugs. "It was a Dundee-athon. I was handcuffed to a hospital bed for three days. What else did I have to do?"

"Ask her already," Emma snaps, pointing at the pixie princess, who's perched on the ship's railing, standing shoulder to shoulder with her entourage, all of them chowing down, clumps of Peep in each hand.

"May I remind you, my blonde bombshell, that they chose _me_ to lead the lot of you? I'll decide when—ow ow ow," he protests as Emma seizes the ring dangling from his right ear and yanks. "All right, all right!" Emma releases the ring and makes a sweeping gesture toward the railing. He makes more of the tinkling bell/dentist's drill noises.

The princess chews thoughtfully, taking bites of Peep as she listens and stares hard at Hook. The expression on her face says it all for Emma; the savior murmurs, "I agree a hundred percent, sister. He's thinks he's a world-hopping ladies' man, but the smarminess rolls off him like cheap cologne."

"Hook! What are you saying to her?" David demands.

"Relax, Charming. Show some respect for your leader," Hook says.

"He flirted with her—obviously unsuccessfully," Rumple reports. "She's even more suspicious now."

"You made a pass at a woman no taller than your pinkie finger?" Snow clucks.

"What would a Freudian make of that, I wonder," Rumple giggles.

"It's expected!" Hook snaps. "It's part of the culture. Like most royalty—present company excepted—she expects a little—what's the term you Americans so colorfully and crassly use? She expects a little brown-nosing before we get down to business."

"Well, look at her," Regina says. "You've pissed her off."

"I don't blame her," Snow wrinkles her nose. "I'd be pissed off too."

"Me too," Emma adds.

"It's unanimous, then," Regina says. "Four out of four royals agree: your come-ons are crap, Hook, so knock it off and get back to the task at hand."

David wiggles his sword back and forth in its sheath as a reminder he won't hesitate to use it. Hook rolls his eyes. "You people have lived in the concrete jungle far too long. You've lost your class, that's what. But very well." He addresses the pixie again.

She's still scowling and chewing, but at least she's thinking. She swallows, then spins on her heel and jabs her sticky finger towards Rumplestiltskin and barks at him.

"What's she saying?" Emma nudges Hook with an elbow.

"Shhh."

The princess continues yammering for several minutes, then she takes a ferocious bite of Peep, tearing the marshmallow with her tiny white teeth (which, the humans notice, are pointed and sharp). When she falls silent, Rumplestiltskin nods, thinks a long moment, then answers her.

She nods back at him, her forehead smoothing; whatever he's said has placated her.

"What'd she say?" Emma nudges Rumple this time. "What did you say? She looks like a happy camper now."

"Well, she said plenty. I didn't catch it all, but—correct me if my translation is amiss, Captain—she said clearly she was mistaken when she saw leadership qualities in Hook; he isn't fit to lead a rout of snails. And her opinion went downhill after that. Something about. . . hmm. . .the audacity of a male who acts as though he carries a cobra in his pants when in reality what's there wouldn't impress a caterpillar."

"Slug," Hook corrects, red-faced.

"Ah, yes, I stand corrected. Wouldn't impress a slug."

Emma leans on David's shoulder, the two of them laughing so hard their eyes tear. Snow bites her lip, struggling. . . struggling. . . and then she falls into Emma's shoulder in a fit of uncontrollable laughter.

"Shall I rescue your honor, Captain?" Regina slides up to the pirate, her eyes traveling down his leather trousers, her tongue moistening her lips. "I could take a look and offer my expert opinion on your. . . First Mate."

"Crocodile!" Hook holds his hands out in warning and backs away from Regina. "Give me my hook back before this witch manhandles me!"

"And reveal your true identity to the pixies?"

"You brought this on yourself, Hook," Emma comments. "It's about time you got a taste of your own medicine. Go ahead, Regina; I'll hold him down for you." She inches forward menacingly.

"Your Majesty! Snow! Rescue me!" Hook pleads, still backing away. "Charming, help! You have to—you're a hero; you can't refuse a request for help!"

"Turnabout's fair play, Hook," David remarks.

"But—Henry. What about Henry?" Hook pants.

"What, did the pixie say something about Henry?" Emma snaps back to seriousness.

"Not yet," Rumplestiltskin says. "But she did say she's changing the conditions of her deal with us. She now wants Emma to be our leader."

"Really?" Snow grins with pride. "Emma, she trusts you!"

"Remember, Ms. Swan, why she chose Hook in the first place. Are you capable of killing a freckle-faced fifteen-year-old clad in leaves? Because, to your eyes, that's how Pan will appear."

"I. . . I don't know," Emma says slowly.

"You can't hesitate," Rumple presses her. "He won't. In the seconds it would take for you to raise your sword, Pan would kill Henry."

Emma's jaw clenches, and Rumplestiltskin nods. "As long as you remember that, you can do what may have to be done."

"It doesn't have to come to that," Snow argues. "He's just a boy; surely he'll listen to his elders."

"Or get turned over my knee," David grumbles.

Hook, now no longer the butt of Regina's ribald humor, says to Rumple, "You're going to have to show them. You know, with"—he flutters his fingers to suggest magic. "They've got to be prepared."

"Yeah." The wizard's face darkens. "So they won't make the same mistake I did. As soon as our parley with the pixies is done."

"What about it, Emma?" Regina asks. "Are you tough enough to lead us? Because if you're not, I have no problem destroying the kidnapper who stole Henry, no matter how old he appears to be."

"And isn't," Hook adds. "Time is different here. In the time it takes the Lost Boys to put on their shoes, you in Storybrooke will have celebrated a dozen birthdays. Bear that in mind, lovely lady."

"It's true," Rumplestiltskin says. "You'll have to learn to look not with your eyes but with your heart here, and remember everything Hook and I teach you."

Emma thinks a moment, then nods once, sharply. "I can do it. For Henry."

Hook starts to say something to Sabina, but Emma interrupts. "No, let me. I want to talk to her, woman to woman. How do I say, 'Yes, I will do whatever I have to, to save my son? Yes, I will lead.'"

Hook starts to translate, but Emma throws a talk-to-the-hand gesture in his face. "Not you." She juts her chin at Rumplestiltskin. "You."

"I am less than eloquent in Pixish—"

"Do it." Emma demands.

He stares at his feet as though there might be a dictionary there that only he can see. He picks through words the way a fussy chef would pick through a fruit bin. Several times, he backs up and corrects himself, but at last, Emma, repeating the words he selects and offers to her, gets her message out.

The pixie drops her handfuls of Peep and floats up to be on eye level with Emma. She makes a reply, but her expression is so unequivocal that a translation of her words isn't necessary.

"Tell me how to ask her," Emma says, "when we can attack, and how."

Rumplestiltskin gives her the translation. The pixie answers and he translates again, "She says let's go down to the galley and sit and talk."

* * *

An hour and a ten-pound bag of Reese's Pieces later, the leaders have mapped out their battle plans, with translations by Rumple and corrections by Hook, who is finally allowed back into the fold after a profuse (but, everyone knows, insincere) apology.

"The Lost Ones awake with the sun," Sabina informs them. "Pan awakes them with his crowing."

"Then we strike an hour before dawn," Emma decides, and Sabina nods, pleased with the answer.

Sabina and her three sergeants, Tanji, Yuna and Kiri, bow to Emma and bid her farewell, then fly away with a promise to return in full force—ninety pixies—one hour before sunrise.

Once they've gone, Snow pours herself a cup of coffee and reseats herself beside her daughter. "Is it true, all pixies are female?"

"It is," Hook says.

"Then," she muses, "where do baby pixies come from?"

Hook and Rumplestiltskin exchange a stunned glance. Rumple shrugs. "The pixie stork?"

Emma sniggers.

"Perhaps, Ms. Swan," Rumple suggests, "when the battle is won, you can take advantage of the bond of trust you have with your pixie counterpart and ask her."

"Just not in front of Hook," Regina advises.

"I am not asking a pixie how she reproduces," Emma refuses. "No. Just _no_." Before any more jokes can be made, she thrusts a finger at Rumple's chest. "Now, you were going to tell me about Pan."

"Ah." He sighs, then conjures a small appliance in the middle of the dining table.

"An espresso maker!" Regina exclaims, then conjures a set of espresso cups.

"We're going to need better than that." Rumple snaps his fingers and the cups are replaced by soup bowls. "Settle in, dearies, and behold the enemy." As Regina pours coffees all around, the Charming family and the pirate make themselves more comfortable at the long wooden table.

Rumple picks up a salt mill and waves his hand over it, his long fingers flowing gracefully through the air. "Hey, you do that really nice," Emma says. "You could work in Vegas. Seriously. You and Regina could work up an act, be as famous as Penn and Teller."

The two mages look at each other and shudder.

"Never mind, Ms. Swan, never mind. Just watch." Little rocks of salt rise, dance around the mill, spinning in a cloud, and in the center of the cloud a small image forms. Rumple moves a finger smoothly through the cloud of salt and the image grows until it's as big as the espresso machine.

"Wow," Snow breathes.

"Yeah, wow," Emma echoes.

They're looking at a hologram of a pug-nosed, freckle-faced boy with a thick thatch of dark hair, all elbows and ears and knees like a teenager, but in his almond eyes a jaded coldness only an adult could feel.

"He's _dark_," Snow blurts, and she's not referring to the lad's appearance. "There's something in his eyes that's even darker than yours"—she looks at Rumple—"or yours"—she looks at Regina.

"He's dark as they come," Hook agrees. "He could have made Cora shiver."

"You fought him," David says. "You beat him."

Rumplestiltskin shakes his head. "No."

David is surprised. "No?"

"I lost."

"Peter Pan defeated the Dark One," David repeats slowly before turning to Hook. "And you?"

"Yes, I fought him, many times. Usually to a draw."

"How does he fight?"

"Have you ever seen the movie _Scarface_?" Hook asks.

"Yeah. You did?"

Hook shrugs. "Three days handcuffed to a hospital bed. And _Pulp Fiction_?"

"Yeah."

Emma mutters, "I should've set the channel on the Disney Network and took the batteries out of the remote."

"Since you didn't, I had a broad sampling of what passes for entertainment in your world." Hook sneers. "Personally, I think bear baiting is more intellectually satisfying."

"Your point, Hook?" David prompts. "About Pan?"

"Yes. Well, Pan is part Tony Montana, part Jules Winnfield and part Curly from the Three Stooges."

David grunts, but Emma just stares at the hologram.

Rumple lowers his voice and sets his hand on the savior's. "Can you do it, Emma?" When she meets his eyes, he nods at the boy in the hologram. "Can you kill him?" She doesn't answer immediately, just stares at the hologram. "It's okay to say no. I can't do it." He doesn't explain whether his _can't_ refers to a moral choice or a simple lack of ability to overpower the enemy.

"He has Henry," Emma reiterates. "I'll do what it takes."

"I see."

"Gold?"

"Yes?"

Emma forces herself to look at the hologram. "How old is he, again?"

"Centuries, Emma." He waves his hand and the features of the boy in the hologram alter; in an instant he becomes a grown man, and in another, he's a graying, wrinkled being. "If he lived in your world or mine, this is what he would look like."

The tension leaves Emma's shoulders. "Thanks. That helps. Can you do that for me when we meet him in the flesh?"

"Yes, but you can do it yourself. You have far more power than you realize. You're going to have to be willing to use it."

Emma tosses back her espresso as if she were a cowboy tossing back redeye in a saloon. "Maybe you'd better show me a few things, huh?" But before he can answer, she clutches a hand to her mouth, leaps to her feet and skitters up the stairs to the poop deck.

She doesn't make it.

Rumplestiltskin materializes at her side, holding her hair back as she doubles over. "Lesson number one: know your limits. Lesson number two." He gestures to the splatter on Emma's boots. "A little magic will clean that right up, dearie."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

**A/N. A tiny spoiler in this chapter, with more little spoilers to come, based on the 3.01 clip shown at the D23 expo. But since my guessing record sucks, this story is highly unlikely to detract from your viewing pleasure when 3.01 airs.**

* * *

_Enchanted Forest, Three Centuries Before the Curse_

"Where is he?" Boots thud heavily on the dirty and broken wooden floor. Aunt Maerwynn does her best to keep the ruck house up, really she does, but with no money and no help from the man of the house, it's an impossible task. Besides, between raising her brother's two little boys and trying to make a living with her spinning, there's just no time for home repairs.

Rumple's heart thuds so hard in his chest that he's sure his father can hear it, and indeed, Jarin seems to have, for the boots stop at the kitchen cupboard, where Rumple's hiding. The cupboard door is jerked open, a rough hand thrusts in and seizes the boy by the collar and drags him out. Rumple cringes on the floor, watching those boots. He's spent a significant portion of his seven years staring warily at those boots and waiting, dreading. Years later, when he tries to remember the color of his father's eyes, he realizes he doesn't know; he probably never looked up that high. But he can describe those boots in detail.

"Not you, you sickly, worthless runt," the voice above the boots growls. "I'd have to pay to get 'em to take you." The boot lifts and Rumple covers his head; he knows what's coming. The boot slams into his arm and Jarin curses in frustration for missing Rumple's head. But apparently the boy isn't worth the effort of a second attempt. The boots turn and stomp away.

Outside there's a man's shout and a boy's cry of pain, and Aunt Maerwynn goes running. She's gone a very long time, Rumple thinks; when she returns, gathering him into her arms and rocking him, she's sobbing. She never cries, but this time she does, so hard her body shakes. He doesn't dare ask why. Eventually she stops sobbing and just rocks back and forth, back and forth, soothing herself as well as him. Night falls and still she rocks; she doesn't get up to light the fire or start supper.

Or, Rumple realizes, call Ascel in.

* * *

_Neverland, Present Day_

They're standing on the bow of the ship. Hook, David and Snow are quietly discussing the magical properties of the island that lies out there, within swimming distance—David is having a difficult time wrapping his mind around the fact that this island is a Shifting Land and, therefore, it's not possible to use traditional battle plans. Hook can relate to his confusion: it took him ages to do what David will have to do in one night, that is, to let go of what he has always believed to be the irrefutable and ever-dependable laws that govern the physical world and trust what a pirate is telling him—even worse, a pirate who's made repeated passes at his daughter. David's curled lip of distrust reveals his concern that, once again, Hook has some trick up his leather sleeve. His gaze slides over the pretty pirate and passes to Rumplestiltskin, who is standing at portside with Regina and Emma; Snow catches her husband watching the mage with an expression she's never seen before: something akin to wistfulness. She thinks she knows what David's thinking: the son of Rumplestiltskin is looking pretty good now, in comparison to Hook, as a suitable suitor for Emma. Poor David. He'll never understand the attraction some women have for bad boys.

And here he probably thought he'd gotten off easy, missing out on Emma's teen years. Snow chuckles to herself and links her arm in his as she tries to focus on Hook's geography lesson. "And so we have to navigate by the stars and the sun," she supplies, "rather than landmarks."

"Exactly," Hook sighs in relief. "Because the landmark you see today may not be there tomorrow."

Rumplestiltskin is likewise struggling to communicate magical concepts. "Ms. Swan, what happens if you tense up before you shoot a gun?"

Emma's frown eases. Magic, she doesn't understand; guns, she does. "You're likely to jerk the trigger and miss."

He crosses behind her and pinches her shoulders, making her yelp. "Same thing for magic. Now take a deep breath, hold it to the count of ten, release it slowly, and with it, release the tension in your shoulders."

"And look with your mind's eye," Regina urges. "See the flames leap and fall, feel the heat, and know that you control it."

Emma obeys and instantly her fingers tingle and her palms grow warm. She opens her eyes to find twin baseball-sized fireballs floating about an inch above her palms. She can feel the heat from them, but it's not uncomfortable. She can hear the flames crackle as they await her command. She closes her eyes again and imagines the fireballs rising into the night sky. . . .

A squeal forces her to open her eyes. One of the pixies, hovering nearby, is frantically patting out flames on her leafy dress. She waves her finger in Emma's face and chirrups.

"She said, 'Watch it, sister,' among other, less polite things," Rumple translates. "Pixies cuss like sailors when they're mad." He and Regina stifle their laughter.

"Tell her—no, tell me how to tell her I'm sorry," Emma begs, and she mimics the sounds Rumple makes.

"She says, 'Don't let it happen again.' And she forgives you."

The fireballs are still floating in the air. Regina brings them to Emma's attention: "Uhm, Ms. Swan? You're still smoking."

"Oh." Emma stares hard at her hands.

"No, no," Rumple corrects her. "Don't _think_ it; _see_ it. And don't just turn them off. I want you to put them out."

"What do you mean?"

"With water. You must learn to summon and manipulate all four elements."

"All four," Emma repeats. "That'll take forever!"

Regina preens like a Siamese cat. "As I recall, it took me about fifteen minutes to master the elements."

"Oh yeah?" That's all Emma needs to hear. She'll give them mastery, all right; she'll show them control. She squeezes her eyes shut and imagines water. . . .

"Emma!" Regina shouts.

She opens her eyes to find a huge wave rising out of the ocean and moving like a steamroller towards the two little fireballs—and the ship.

Now even Rumple is ruffled. "Emma, send it back!"

The sheriff gapes at the tidal wave headed her way. "_I_ did that?"

"Emma!" Both Regina and Rumple plead.

The savior shakes her head to clear it, then focuses—and now a blond beach boy in Bermuda shorts, hanging ten on a surfboard, appears atop the wave.

Five voices shout out in unison: "EMMA!"

She blinks and the wave disappears. She and her teachers run forward, leaning over the bow. In the quiet, moonlit waters below, the beach boy greets them cheerfully from astride his board. "Cowabunga, dudes!"

Peering down, Rumple pats Emma's shoulder sympathetically. "You're going to have to cut down on the caffeine, Sheriff."

"Ladies!" Now Emma's surfer, delighted he has an audience, flexes his biceps for them and his bronzed pecs dance. "Surf's up!"

Regina asks drolly, "How long has been since you're had a date, Ms. Swan?"

* * *

_Enchanted Forest, Three Centuries Before the Curse_

When it's clear that neither Ascel nor Jarin is coming back, Maerwynn gathers some spare clothes and bread and cheese into a bag and takes Rumple to the marketplace, where she sells the wool she's spun and clicks her tongue at the few coppers it earns. She asks questions of every vendor in the marketplace; the answers help her decide which direction they will take as they follow the road that leads out of the village.

They walk for four days. When the bread and cheese are gone, they steal from gardens and orchards, but mostly, they go hungry. "Where are we going?" Rumple asks.

Maerwynn's mouth tightens and she stares at the horizon. "To find your brother."

On the morning of the fourth day they arrive in another village. Maerwynn asks questions of the baker as Rumple slips a loaf of bread under his shirt. He's so small that adults ignore him, making petty theft easy. In an alley they eat the bread. "Is he here?" Rumple asks.

She points at a tavern. "There." She's scowling. "Are you still hungry?" She doesn't look at him, hasn't looked at him since they left their village.

"No," he lies.

"Are you finished eating, then?"

"Yes."

She stands and brushes off her skirts. "Let's go." She takes his hand and leads him across the road to the tavern. But instead of going in, she leads him around the back and makes him wait on the stoop as she enters the open door to the kitchen, where a woman is plucking a chicken.

When she returns she's red faced with anger. He knows better than to ask; he merely follows her as she returns to the road. He looks back longingly at the bakery.

They search until the first frost, and then she leads him back home. Exhausted, he clutches Lightning Man, named for the lightning bolt-decorated blue coat that Maerwynn made for him, and curls up on his sleeping mat as his aunt resumes her spinning. He's too old for the doll, but it was a handmedown from Ascel so Rumple kept it even after he too outgrew it.

For years, Rumple and Maerwynn listen for approaching bootfalls, and when they go to market, they search the faces of passersby.

When he is fourteen, the same age as Ascel was when Rumple saw him last, he asks. His tone leaves no doubt that he considers himself old enough for the truth, and she acquiesces. "Your father had debts he couldn't pay. The sheriff was coming to take him to prison, so your father made a deal."

"What does that have to do with Ascel?"

"He was the deal. Your father sold him to the tavern keeper."

"But Ascel wasn't at the tavern."

"No. One night the tavern keeper heard a noise in the attic, where Ascel slept. When he went up to see what had happened, he found the window open and Ascel gone."

"He escaped!" Rumple cheers.

"The window was too high, Rumple. He couldn't have climbed down."

"He escaped," Rumple insists. "And he'll come back as soon as he finds the way."

"Start carding the wool, Rumple." Her eyes break away from his and lock on the wheel as she spins. They don't talk about Ascel after that. Rumple makes two vows: he will see his brother again, and he will never speak his father's name again.

* * *

_Neverland, Present Day_

Emma heats a pot of cocoa. After all that cappuccino, she's wired, and the past seven days aboard the _Jolly Roger_ have shown her she's a landlubber exclusively. At least the Dramamine that Regina conjured for her on the first day out has taken care of her seasickness, but now, with the enemy so close she thinks she can hear him breathe, she's ready to jump out of her skin. She paces the galley and sips her cocoa, only slightly comforted (and considerably envious) in the knowledge that her mother and father are back there (she can't remember what "back there" is called in ship talk) somewhere, sleeping soundly in the crew's quarters.

Just a year ago, whenever she'd felt stressed out like this, she could talk to Mary Margaret about it. Mary didn't always have an answer, but she always had a sympathetic shoulder to lean on and a nonjudgmental ear to bend. Mary Margaret Blanchard was one helluva friend.

But that was before the curse broke. The woman who slumbers peacefully in the bunk back there somewhere is. . . different. Sure, Mary Margaret is in her still, but as the weeks have passed since those muddle-brained days, and especially as the ship has sailed closer and closer to Neverland—to battle—more and more of Snow White has emerged. And Snow White is a warrior queen who's not only conquered ogres and armies, she's conquered her own fear. She's confident and knowledgeable and crafty and skilled in three forms of combat. She's everything her people need her to be, everything this rescue squad needs her to be.

Which is to say, not exactly what her daughter needs her to be right now.

When she looks into their eyes—her mother's, her father's, Hook's, Regina's—she sees steely determination. She also sees, when she looks deeper, a willingness that she's not sure she can muster, despite what she's said to the pixies: the willingness to kill. A fifteen-year-old leading a band of orphan boys, some of whom probably still suck their thumbs and wet the bed! How can she possibly rain fire and lightning on babies younger than Henry? Her only hope is that one of the other rescuers, not her, finds the Lost Boys first.

The door to the galley squeaks open. She wheels about, tensing up, then eases back and seats herself at the table. It's Gold.

"Mind if I—?" he gestures to the bench across from hers.

"Knock yourself out," she says dryly. She watches him cross the room, a little unstable still; like her, he's never found his sea legs. She's taken comfort in that. Misery loves company. Something's off about him tonight, though. She can't quite put her finger on it. His back's not as ramrod straight as it was in Storybrooke. His hair's grayer, lines around his eyes deeper, but that's not it, not what's bugging her. . . .

His tie and jacket are missing.

"Cocoa?"

"Thank you."

She fetches a mug and moves to the stove. "Can't sleep either?"

"One needs less sleep as one ages, Ms. Swan," he explains, then adds wryly, "and I'm about as old as one can get." He doesn't mention the sound he's been hearing ever since they arrived in Neverland, the incessant sound he knows Hook, but no one else, hears too: _tick tock, tick tock_. His nerves jangle as he waits for the clock's alarm to ring.

She pours a full cup. Setting it down before him, she has the opportunity for once to look down upon him. From this angle, and without his trademark bared teeth, he doesn't seem dangerous, just tired. She resists the urge to ask his true age. She reseats herself and they drink cocoa in silence. He stares at the mug, which grants her liberty to stare at him, trying to figure out what's different, besides the jacket and tie.

He happens to glance up, then his eyes flick back down to the cocoa. In that instant she jerks back. His eyes have always been a secret weapon, she thinks: the irises are rich brown with flecks of gold, and they're larger than most people's, giving him the appearance of innocence, trustworthiness. But right now, in that glance, they aren't Gold's eyes: they're Neal's.

"Oh!"

He glances at her again. "Ms. Swan?"

She shakes her head. "Nothing. Just—for a second there, you reminded me of Neal. Bae."

He nods and turns the mug around in his hands, giving him the excuse to break eye contact with her. "Sometimes, when I look at you, I think about him. I suppose I always will." His eyes shift to her left hand, lingering long enough that she automatically covers it with her right hand. Subconsciously she massages the fourth finger, and then she realizes what she's doing, and why.

"I wish he had," Gold says softly.

"What?" She thinks she knows what he means, but she wants to hear the words.

"Married you."

"We were too young, too mixed—" she starts to make the usual excuses, then changes her mind. "Yeah. Me too."

"Thank you, for what you gave him." When she seems puzzled, he explains, "A reason to try."

"He was the first person who ever loved me," she confesses.

"I'm sorry." She thinks he's just being polite until he continues, "It was. . . I created the curse that separated you from your parents, so that I could get to your world and be reunited with Bae."

This doesn't surprise her; she's learned he's behind most of what happens in Storybrooke. "How did Regina get it away from you?"

"I'd given it first to her rival, and that made Regina all the more determined to have it." He toys with the cup. "And I convinced her that casting the curse would give her the peace of mind she craved, a world fit to her specifications."

"Where families would be separated and my mother would be punished." Emma knows this part of the story.

"Over and over," he adds. "Until the curse breaker arrived."

"She knew about me."

"Yes."

"And you knew—everything."

"Not everything." He shakes his head angrily. "If I had. . . ." he shrugs.

"You wouldn't have created the curse?"

"Perhaps not." He considers the possible outcomes if the curse had never been cast. "No. I wouldn't have created the curse, if I'd known it would lead to Tamara and Pan."

She could punish him: lord knows he deserves it. And two years ago, she would have. But tomorrow they're battling Pan, with Henry's life at stake, and they all need to be strong; they all need hope. She looks into her cocoa and imagines how the battle may go, and she feels it growing in her, the same determination that she's seen in her parents' eyes. She can kill if she has to, to save Henry. She glances up at the old man sitting across from her—her father-in-law, if not on the paper of the world's law, then in the truth of the heart—and she sees how unlike her parents he is; beneath the trappings of position, underneath the power (and yes, he seems to have lost none of his power in the translation to the Land without Magic), how scared he is, how unheroic. How desperate he must have been to find his son, just as she is now. How human. Like her.

So she offers him the one outlet she can. It's not forgiveness, not yet, but it will lead to Henry, and through him she'll forgive Rumplestiltskin and Regina for the curse, and August and Marco for screwing it all up, and Neal for betraying her and then, after resurrecting her hope, dying on her, and her parents for choosing heroism over her. "If you hadn't created the curse, I would never have met Baelfire and there would be no Henry. So—" she sets her ringless hand over his hand, which also should bear a wedding ring, she thinks; the curse has jerked him and Belle around too. "So"—and she's telling the truth, even if she doesn't feel it—"thank you."

He looks at her strangely.

She has to cut through this seriousness; they need to get back to their familiar, prickly footing. "Hey, Neal and I did live together for almost a year. That's kind of like a common law marriage, isn't it? You're a lawyer, so you tell me: are common-law daughter-in-laws eligible to inherit from their baby daddy's rich papas?"

His look changes to one of admiration. "Ah, you're finally learning to appreciate the power of contracts. I'm sorry to disappoint a fellow aficionado, but common law marriage isn't recognized in Maine or New York. But you certainly would have a claim on behalf of your son, as I'm certain the beneficiary of my will would agree."

"Belle?"

He nods. "Belle. One small problem, however."

"Oh, you mean the immortality thing?"

"Precisely."

"Well, then, I'll settle for really good birthday presents. . . Papa Rumple."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

_Enchanted Forest, Two Hundred Ninety Years After Rumple Becomes the Dark One_

He hates the noise.

So much has changed in the village since he came here last. For one thing, it now has a name: Alsford, after the river that nurtures it. When he was here last, something like a century and a half ago, it wasn't considered a town, just a collection of ramshackle buildings along the riverbank; now, even the streets have names. It's necessary because there are so many of them.

The streets, most of them, now are cobbled, and cluttered with carriages and wagons rumbling along, the horses' hooves clattering, the drivers shouting at the animals and each other, the street vendors shouting the virtues of their wares to impervious passersby. This place used to be so quiet you could hold a conversation with a shopkeeper without raising your voice.

He tells himself he's come here to watch for an opportunity to make a deal, although no one from this village has ever summoned him and there's nothing in particular that he needs to acquire at the moment. His work is in a holding pattern. It will be another year until King George bellows for him, demanding that he resurrect Prince James, and five months after that until Queen Regina confesses she's seeking to learn how to do the same kind of stunt for her stable boy. What is it with these mortals, anyway, that they can't learn to let go and move on? If they were immortal, like he is, they'd know better.

So he thinks as he ambles along Merchants' Row, trailing his hand along the countertops of the vendors' stalls. It amuses him, so he tells himself, that at every stall he approaches, the vendor takes a step backwards, as though contact with his hand might cause the counter to spontaneously combust. Just to torment the baker, Rumplestiltskin conjures a stack of gold coins and shuffles them between his hands as he walks past. The baker takes a step back, then a step forward, his eyes fixed on the gold. "Hot cross buns, fresh out of the oven, sir! Apple turnovers! Bread so soft it melts on your tongue!" He can't bring himself to raise his eyes to meet Rumple's.

The baker's apprentice tugs at his master's sleeve. "Don't!" he hisses. "Don't you see who that is? Quick, move back before he—"

Rumplestiltskin sets the stack of coins on the counter and sneers. "Before he does what, dearie?"

The apprentice bows hastily and dashes out through the back, leaving his employer to face the wizard alone. "S-s-something you like, sir?" the baker pushes a tray of tarts forward, as if offering them in place of himself as a sacrifice. "Strawberry and blackberry, two a copper. Here, t-t-try one."

Rumple chuckles. "I believe I w-w-will." He tosses a blackberry tart into the air and catches it in his mouth, then with his thumb flips a coin into the air. "Catch it, if you dare."

The baker gulps but snatches the coin before it falls. "I'm sorry, sir, but I can't make change for this much money." His hand trembles as he holds the coin out for Rumple to take back.

"Keep it." Rumple says grandly. "For your bravery—or your ignorance, as the case may be. I'll take the entire tray."

"Yes, sir." The baker opens a sack, but before he can deposit the first tart in it, Rumple waves his hand, there's a puff of purple smoke and the tarts transform into blackbirds, which caw as they fly away. "Name's Rumplestiltskin, laddie, if you weren't already aware." He sniggers as he passes on.

The next stall, if he were honest with himself, is why he really came. With each year it gets harder to be among villagers—their chatter, their bustling, their false manners and their self-importance all annoy him, but most of all, it's their smell that repulses him: they smell of newly dug graves. It's so much cleaner to be immortal.

But this stall. He stands back, watching the vendor conclude a sale to a woman overburdened with skirts and children. He's come to buy something here, he's not sure what, but there is much to choose from: on the walls hang wooden swords and shields; on the lower shelf are tin soldiers and wooden horses and painted ducks whose feet paddle when a string is pulled; on the top shelf, dolls of cornhusk or wool, and even one with a porcelain face and a silk dress. A brightly painted circus wagon catches his eye and he decides that's the one: when he gets back to the castle, he'll take it to the first bedroom on the first landing of the east tower, the only bedroom that's fully furnished, the only room in the castle that his magic keeps dusted and warm, with a small fire perpetually burning behind the grate. The room with a chest of never-worn, half-size clothes and an array of toys lined neatly in a trunk at the foot of the bed. The trunk has room enough for one more toy.

The woman is bargaining hard with the vendor, and their raised voices upset the baby riding on her hip. She doesn't seem to notice, but the girl at her side does, and she frees her mother of the infant and bounces him in the air until he giggles, slobber trailing down his chin. The middle child of the family, whose head is tilted back for a view of the toys on the top shelf, points at something and invites his mother to look, but she ignores him.

Rumplestiltskin looks. With his eyes he follows the boy's stubby finger to the farthest corner of the top shelf, where a stuffed bear made of cloth resides. The boy leans his head back even farther for a better view; he loses his balance and starts to fall. Instinctively, though it's been centuries since he's caught a falling child, Rumple reaches out and sets him firmly on the ground again.

The boy turns around to stare at his rescuer. He's about six years old, and he has deep brown eyes and a thick thatch of dark brown hair.

"Bae?" Before he's aware what he's doing, Rumple touches the boy's shoulder.

The boy grabs his mother's skirts and shrieks.

The girl, the mother, the vendor and even the baby all turn to look. The vendor's hand drops down and when it comes up again, it's holding a knife: then the vendor's eyes bulge as they meet Rumple's and he drops the knife. He holds his hands up in surrender.

The mother shrieks too and gathers her brood tight around her.

"Mama, what is that?" the boy points at the sorcerer.

His sister curls her lip. "It's not a man. It's a monster."

Rumplestiltskin raises his chin in indignation. "No cause for alarm, dearies. Haven't you ever seen a Dark One before?" He clicks his tongue. "No, I suppose not." He snaps his fingers and the bear flies off the shelf. He catches it and presents it to the boy. "Here, something to remember me by." He tosses a gold coin at the vendor and with another snap of his fingers, returns to the Dark Castle.

Hours later, he sits at the head of his twelve-foot-long dining table, in his cavernous Great Hall. His feet are propped on the table, and when he shifts them, the thud of his boots against the wood echoes. He folds his arms and throws his head back, thumping it painfully against the back of the chair. The pain doesn't linger: the magic puts a quick end to it. Well, except for that other pain, the one that causes his eyes to burn and a lump to form in his throat; the magic does nothing about that.

It's true, he's not a man. So why does he hurt like one?

_Neverland, Present Time_

Snow goes around from sleeper to sleeper, tapping on doors and shoulders. "Up and at 'em," she urges softly in her Mary Margaret voice. For those who, like Regina and Hook, respond by pulling the blankets over their heads, she turns into Snow White, yanking the covers off, grabbing the slumberer's ankles and dragging them off the bed and onto the unforgiving floor. "Rise and shine!" she bellows in the sleeper's ear.

Regina, in her Christian Dior negligee and sleep mask, waves a hand and turns Snow into one of those pink plastic flamingos that the totally tasteless plant in their front yards. But when Emma glares at her and waves her own magic-tipped fingers threateningly, Regina groans, tosses her sleep mask aside and changes Snow back into Snow.

"For Henry," Emma growls. "If you forget again, I'm going to really make you suffer."

"Oh yeah?" Regina snuffles herself awake. "What are you going to do to me, Gidget? Put me on a surf board?"

Emma sneers and wiggles her fingers. "This."

A pair of earbuds appears in the dainty shells of Regina's ears. She digs and yanks but can't get them to pop out. And then the real torture begins: through the earbuds a mournful voice croons, "Feelings, whoa whoa oh, feelings. . . ."

"Make it stop! I surrender!" Regina claws at her ears and whimpers. "Please, Emma, I'll be good, I swear!"

Emma humpfs in satisfaction and takes the earbuds away. "Next time it'll be 'Don't Worry, Be Happy' over and over and over."

Regina shudders. "Emma Swan, you don't play fair."

It's still night as the rest of the travelers emerge from their bunks, herded like drunken cows by Snow White. They haven't paused to dress, except for Snow, so they're all still in their nightwear: David in a starched white t-shirt and Valentine-patterned boxers, Emma in sweatpants and a spaghetti-strap t-shirt, Gold in midnight blue silk pajamas. . . and Hook in a nightcap, wool socks and ankle-length nightshirt. "Hey, it gets cold at night, out on the high seas," he grumbles. "Any of you makes a crack, you're going to taste my hook." He shakes his right arm threateningly, then realizes the magic spell is still in effect and he doesn't have a hook any more, just a soft, pink hand that really could use a manicure. He stops to inspect his fingernails.

Snow ushers them into the galley, where pots are boiling, skillets are sizzling and the table is set with ornate goblets and flatware (plundered) and melmac plates (shoplifted at some seaside Dollar General—not that Hook couldn't afford the buck, but as a prince of pirates, it just wouldn't do for him to be seen standing in a check-out line).

"Sit down, everyone." Now she's Mary Margaret doing her best Martha Stewart. "You sit there, Regina; David and Emma, you sit on the opposite side; Hook, you'll sit at the head of the table, and Mr. Gold, you sit at the far end–the far, far end, away from Hook."

"Lest you get ideas, dearie," Gold scowls at his nemesis, "I can pitch a fireball the length of a football field with complete accuracy."

"You don't scare me, fancy pants." Hook leans over to whisper to Regina, "What's a football field?"

"Why so grumpy, Hook?" Gold growls. "Did you leave your Care Bear back in Storybrooke?"

"Oh for pity's sake," Regina snaps, and with a wave of her hand she releases an all-engulfing cloud of smoke, and when it clears, everyone is fully dressed–in their Fairytale Land attire. Except for Emma, of course, who's in saggy overalls and a holey straw hat.

With a growl the sheriff replaces the outfit with her trademark jeans, t- shirt and red jacket. "I suppose I should be used to it now, but you all look like rejects from the X-Men."

As Snow starts passing the platters of food, Hook wonders, "That reminds me: if you're all changing back to your former selves, why aren't you hideous-looking again, crocodile?"

Regina smacks Gold's arm with a bear claw. "You're cheating, aren't you? Admit it: you're using a glamour!"

"Am not!" he proclaims in his huskiest voice.

"Are too!"

"Am not!"

"Then where are your scales and claws and rotten teeth?"

"Same place as your mile-high hairdo."

Emma grimaces. "Scales and claws. That's what he really looks like? Not horns and cloven hooves?"

Gold denies it. "No! This is what I really look like. . . now."

Snow forces Regina to shove over so she can sit between the Evil Queen and the Dark One. "Well, it's not that bad, if you take it in context. I mean, you put him along side a werewolf, Frankenstein, a bunch of fairies and a giant, and a scaly imp looks kind of. . . normal. Almost attractive. He had these big, hypnotic eyes–"

Hook interrupts, "So, the lady has a kinky side! Snow White's not so snow white after all!"

David slams his fork into Hook's toast. "That's my wife you're talking about, pirate. Keep it up and I'm turning that hook of yours into a suppository."

But Hook never knows when to quit. "Now we know where the lady gets her kinkiness." He leers at Emma. "Hmm, does the apple fall far from the tree, I wonder?"

Snow, David and Emma shout in unison, "Don't say 'apples'!"

Snow is the first to recover her good nature. "Come on now, we're wasting time." She swats Hook with her spatula. "Eat up, everyone; you're not getting up from the table until you've cleaned those plates."

"Snow's right," David says. "We've got Lost Boys to track down."

As David stirs his coffee, Hook sneaks his new hand across the table and steals one of David's sausage patties. He's a pirate: stealing is compulsory.

_Fairiron, the Marchlands, Three Hundred Years After Rumple Becomes the Dark One  
_  
The Duke of the Marchlands isn't aware yet that he has a houseguest. Perched on a crossbeam high above the duke's dining hall-turned-war room, Rumplestiltskin swings his legs and eavesdrops on the knights as they hunch over the maps strewn across the dining table. What a waste of a perfectly good table, Rumple thinks; it should instead bear platters of turkey and chicken, bowls of potatoes and carrots, tankards of ale. The duke has given up trying to follow the debate—he's not much of a strategist, anyway—and he's thumping about the room in his smudged robes.

It's not the duke Rumple is interested in, nor the war per se, though he abhors ogres as much as these knights do; it's the geography. The village of Fairiron, the seat of the duchy, is a major producer of iron, and the world depends upon iron; if Fairiron falls, as its sister city Avonlea has, the economy of the neighboring kingdom will suffer, and Rumple can't have that: that kingdom belongs to Regina, and Regina must not be distracted right now. She's at a crucial point in her training. So Rumple has come to rescue Fairiron from the big bad ogres. He'll do it in a minute; for now, he needs to decide upon his price. Really, he'd do the work for free, for Regina's sake, but he can't have the public thinking he's giving away magic now, and for a task as large as ending a war, he must charge dearly. He could just do his usual vague "you'll owe me a favor," but Rumple's pretty sure the duke will never have the clout to provide a decent favor. The trouble is, the duke has so little to offer. He possesses only one object of real value.

But what the hell would Rumplestiltskin do with her?

So he's eavesdropping and tapping his fingers against the crossbeam (they can't hear or see him, of course) and looking for something else to take, but there just isn't anything that would put the pinch on the duke and cause ripples of gossip to spread from county to county. So he tells himself.

The girl is old enough to leave home, but young enough to adjust to a new life. She's healthy and strong, both of body and will. And the Dark Castle is awfully dusty, and he's completely bored with his magic's unimaginative cooking. . . and there's something about her blue eyes. . . .

A thought pops into his head. He doesn't recognize its source: he only knows it didn't come from him or the Dark One. _She's the way back to Bae._

Of course that's not correct. The Final Curse is the way, the only way, to find Bae. But a vision fills his head, unbidden: it's a fully grown man dressed in foreign clothes, but Rumple knows it's Bae, and he sees himself, also in foreign clothes, his scales and his claws gone, and he sees himself reaching out for Bae, but Bae recoils, his lip curled in disgust. "What are you? You're not a man." He hears himself begging, "But I am."

_She's how you will become a man again._

The duke's robes. They were worth something once: Rumple will take those for his price. As soon as he decides that, the magic retreats from his fingertips. The deal has been rejected by a power outside himself.

With an annoyed snort, he studies the girl, who's kneeling at her father's feet to offer words, not of comfort, but of encouragement. The magic surges back into his fingers. The decision has been taken out his hands, literally: she is his asking price. He listens for her name; when he has it, he finds it pleasing, far less harsh than _Cora_ and less "me"-centered than _Milah_: _Belle_.

So he makes his offer, and then he knows there really is another power at work here, because the girl (not her father; Rumple should give the weak-willed noble credit for that at least) accepts. "I will go with you forever." He tells them she will be his housekeeper, because if he told them the truth they'd laugh at him: she will be his savior.

_Neverland, Present Day_

The moment Emma's boots touch down on the beach, the forest that she's spotted on the horizon shimmers and vanishes, and in its place appears a mountain. "What the fudge?" she wheels on Regina, who's standing on her right. "Can't you do anything about that?"

"About what?" Regina shrugs. She shades her eyes and looks where Emma's pointing: the mountain vanishes and becomes a trio of gently rolling hills. "Oh, that. Yes, I can see how that would be a problem."

"Ya think?" Emma sniffs. "Well? Do something."

Regina folds her arms and cocks her head. "Hmm."

"Don't just 'hmm.' Make it stop!"

"It would help if we knew what kind of magic was causing that. . . ."

"And whose," Gold comes up behind them.

"You advertise yourself as the most powerful wizard in the world, but you're about as believable as a used car salesman," Hook grumbles. When the others glare at him, he shrugs. "Three days chained to a hospital bed adds up to innumerable hours of commercials."

Emma is concentrating on the hills. "Maybe it's like the fail safe: too much for one, but if all three of us work on it together. . . ."

Regina purses her lips. "I suppose we could try."

Gold adds, "We did have our Wheaties this morning." He holds out his hands, which are alight with a gold glow. "I'm fully charged. How about you, Madame Mayor?"

Regina's hands are shooting off purple sparks. "Fire when ready, Gridley."

"Okay, if we do this, we're going to do it full blast, right?" Gold's tone is cautionary. "That means, Ms. Swan, your magic will be depleted for an hour or two."

"It would be worth it, if we can get this damn island to hold still. I don't see how we can find Henry if the ground keeps shifting under our feet."

David is chomping at the bit like some sultan's prize stallion. "While you're doing the wizard thing, Hook and Snow and I will scout around."

"Where?" Regina asks sweetly.

He turns to point at the hills–which have evolved into desert dunes. "Th–oh. Yeah, we'll just wait here."

"Very well, then." Gold holds out his hands toward the women. "You're both going to have to allow me access to your magic."

"Fine," Emma says, but Regina protests, "Why does it get to be you? Why don't I cast the spell?"

"All right, Regina." Gold grips her hand and Emma's. "Proceed."

She squeezes her eyes shut, then peeks through her eyelashes. "Uhm, well. . . .You'll have to recite the incantation."

Emma leans toward Gold to whisper, "Isn't that the same thing as casting the spell?"

He winks at her. "You catch on quickly, Ms. Swan." In a low voice he begins the incantation, half-reciting, half-singing. It kind of sounds like something the Beatles would've recorded in their Sergeant Pepper years, Emma thinks. He takes her hand; she screws her eyes shut and, automatically, her grip on him and Regina tightens, causing pain. Regina howls and yanks her hand away, shaking it.

Gold just looks at Emma coolly and reminds her, "Magic is emotion, not brute force." He glances at Regina and adds, "Well, when it's done elegantly, that is." They start again.

Twenty minutes later, their hands are red and raw, their hair damp with sweat, but they're still at it, and the earth is still shifting.

Forty minutes later, David taps Gold on the shoulder. "It hasn't changed in ten minutes."

"It?" All heads turn toward the former sand dunes, now an empty asphalt parking lot.

Regina and Gold groan in unison: "Ms. Swan!"

"Sorry. I'm a city girl. Lucky it didn't turn out to be a block of high rises."

Regina chews her lower lip. "We're gonna have to watch her, Rumple."

His reply is half snort of derision and half hum of admiration. "Indeed. Ms. Swan hijacked the Dark One's spell."

Regina mutters, "Amateur."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

_Neverland, Three Hundred Years After Rumple Becomes the Dark One_

Once in the lifetime of every fairy, she makes an obligatory pilgrimage to another land to pay her tribe's respects to, and to learn from, the fairies there; and their cousins the pixies do the same. The longer and the more arduous the journey she makes, the greater the regard in which the traveler will be held when she returns home—so it's undertaken only once, and with a great deal of advanced preparation, and before her departure, a week-long festival is held in honor of the departing adventurer.

In her fortieth year, her first year of eligibility for the journey, the pixie Clochette chooses to make the most arduous journey of any in her tribe's memory: she will travel to the Enchanted Forest and commune with the fairies there, thus enabling her to study under the most powerful of all fairies, the Reul Ghorm. Clochette hopes that when she returns, her tribe will show her the respect of calling her by her proper name, and not the horrendous nickname they've been using ever since she was assigned her occupation as a mender of pots and pans. Just because she's kind of klutzy, they like to tease her and watch her cheeks redden.

Fewer than a dozen Neverland pixies had journeyed to the Enchanted Forest, in all the history of pixiedom; and of those, only one in the present century: Her Majesty Queen Reine. Because tradition dictates that part of the advanced preparations include a mentoring session between the departing pixie and all pixies who had personal knowledge of the land which would be visited, Reine invites Clochette to a full day of advising, just the two of them. In addition to gaining valuable information about the Enchanted Forest, Clochette gains an immediate elevation in her social status. Already, Clochette's plan is working grandly.

She prepares for her trip for a full year, beginning with a thorough study of all that is written about the fairies of the Enchanted Forest: their history, their customs, their language, their lifestyle, their rules and policies, and their organizational chart. She then moves on to a study of the Enchanted Forest itself: history, climate, geography, politics, and so on. She learns a smattering of the two most common languages spoken by the forest's human denizens; though she doesn't expect to spend much time among them, it never hurts to be prepared. And all the while she, along with the four other fairies who will be traveling in upcoming months, is on a fitness and nutrition regime to strengthen her physically for the journey.

"Hup two three four! Hup two three four!" Jillian the PE Pixie barks as her charges march, on foot, from one end of the island to the other (a _very _taxing excursion, considering that the terrain keeps shifting and that, in the interest of avoiding being stepped on, pixies seldom walk anywhere). Each trainee carries on her back an acorn that's half her height, and on her hip an evergreen needle; the needle is used not only for swordsmanship training, but also as a deterrent against snake attacks: if approached by a snake, the pixie will thrust her needle into the creature's eye.

Jillan chants cadence, and her charges echo her. "Peter Pan for Reine I killed/He perched upon my window sill/I lured him in with a piece of bread/And then I stomped his little head."

The trainees are panting and sweating two hours into their day-long march—so Jillian barks, "Double time, harch!" They groan but they shift into a trot, and Jillian helps them keep up the pace with another cadence that encapsulates each trainee's journey plans: "I wanna be an airborne ranger/I wanna live a life of danger/Count down 1-2/Count down 3-4/Count down 1-2-3-4, 1-2, 3-4/I got me a brand-new cause/I'm gonna see the Land of Oz/I got me a plan of worth /I'm gonna visit Middle-Earth/I ain't slackin', no I'm not/I'm gonna visit Camelot/Adventures wild, that's for me/I'm gonna see the world Earthsea/I ain't no silly la-de-da/I'm gonna see great Narnia/Travelin' far, travelin' free/Enchanted Forest, that's for me/Airborne!/Gotta go!/All the way!"

When Clochette trips over a ladybug, Jillian runs up to her and shouts in her face, "Takin' a nap, are you, Private? Thought you'd just lay down right here and have yourself a snooze, huh, like some good-for-nothin' Lost Boy? NOT ON MY WATCH! Getupgetupgetupgetup and then get down again and give me twenty!"

By the time they've reached Curly's Cove, twenty hours later, Clochette's ears are ringing from Jillian's incessant shouting, but the recruit now believes in her strength and her resolve: she's going to brush wings with the Forest fairies; she's going to represent her tribe at the court of the Reul Ghorm.

_Neverland, Present Time_

"Whose magic did this?"

Emma jerks her head back in surprise as Sabina and her squad suddenly appear in the air above, their lights flickering against the now pale sky. She notices for the first time that the light of each pixie is a different color and she wonders if that's a thing of nature or if it's a fashion statement.

Hook's left hand drops onto her shoulder and he leans in to murmur (not whisper, for a murmur is more sensual) in her ear, "Annoying little buggers, aren't they, the way they just appear like that. Kind of like"—he tilts his head in Regina and Rumple's direction. "Not to be trusted, any of 'em."

"Look who's talking." Emma makes a show of prying his fingers off her shoulder—though she does steal a glance as his buffed fingernails. "Hey, do you have _polish_ on those nails?" She holds up his pinkie finger. "You do! That's clear polish! You carry fingernail polish on a pirate ship? I should've known, considering the guyliner."

He snatches his hand back. "Of course not! My nails are naturally shiny. Comes from a healthy lifestyle."

She snorts and turns her attention to the conversation now going on between the pixie princess and Rumplestiltskin, who's still stumbling and backtracking over his limited Pixish vocabulary.

So that his companions won't be left in the linguistic dark, Hook translates the conversation. "The princess is asking whose magic made the island stop shifting. Rump's trying to apologize, totally insincerely, I should add, but she says no, she's not pissed off; on the contrary, she's impressed. It must have taken tremendous power, she says, because pixies have been trying for ages to accomplish that feat. Rump's saying he'd heard that it was a pixie who originally caused the island to shift, but she says no; it was Pan. Seems he does it to make it harder for the Lost Boys to try to leave the island."

"Wow," Snow breathes. "I'm beginning to understand why Gold said Pan's someone we should fear."

"Aye. And that's the smaller of Pan's tricks." Hook resumes the interpretation. "She says we seem worthy allies for her tribe and strong adversaries for the Shadow Snatcher. Rump's laying it on thick about how honored we are, yadda yadda yadda, and by the way, have any of her tribe seen the boy we're looking for. She says Kiri over there caught sight two days ago of two large ones in clothes like ours. They appeared on the beach and they had a small one with them. He was yelling and tried to run away but they had a firm grip on him."

"Was he hurt?" Emma and Snow ask in tandem, and Regina grits her teeth: "I'll yank their eyeballs out and feed them to the vultures. And then I'll gut them and throw their entrails to the sharks. And then—"

"Shh, the princess is still talking," David hushes the queen.

Hook continues translating. "No, he seemed all right, but they dragged him into the heart of the island. That's where the Lost Boys' hideout is."

"And Pan, is that where he is?" David asks.

"No, he lives apart. It's said he lives in an aerie atop a mountain, but the mountain keeps moving, so no one can find him except his lieutenants. They have an enchanted band they wear around their wrists that connects them to him."

The princess turns her gaze from Gold to Emma. She seems especially earnest in what she says next. Hook translates, "She says this is your command, but she suggests first a reconnaissance by her best scouts, to pinpoint Henry's location and assess the situation."

Emma nods. "That sounds wise."

The pixie says something more, and Hook translates, "She's asking what Henry looks like, so the scouts can be certain it's him. She wonders if any of you have a picture of him."

Five hands immediately grab at pockets, and in a flash five wallets are snapped open. Plastic picture holders drop down to reveal photo after photo of the boy. The grandparents begin to argue over whose photo gives the best representation: "You'd think he has red eyes from those pictures," Gold gripes, pointing at David's display.

"Well, all your pictures are in black-and-white. What kind of camera did you use, a tintype?"

"It was an artistic choice—"

"All of those photos suck," Emma complains. "Look, in mine I have him standing next to David so you can tell how tall he is. And in this one, you can see the freckle on his jawline."

"All of _my_ photos were professionally made," Regina interrupts. "They perfectly capture his coloring. And see this one? That sweet little crooked smile he gets when he's been naughty."

Snow leans over to admire the referred to photo. "Awww. He's so darling. How did you get him to smile like that?"

"I told him I knew he let Grace copy his homework."

Snow clicks her tongue. "I'm going to have to have a long talk with that girl when we get home. Taking advantage of a boy's crush on her. . . ."

"Let's see your photos, Snow," Regina suggests in uncharacteristic generosity.

Snow is holding her wallet open so everyone can look. "Well, this is from the last day of school last year."

"Very nice," Regina says.

Snow then shakes the wallet and a string of thirty picture holders drops open. "Wait, I have more." She tips the wallet upside down and additional photos flutter to the sand. As Hook rolls his eyes, the two moms and two grandpas close in around Snow to oooh and aaah and point at their favorites in the collection.

"Good grief, Mom!" Emma exclaims. "When did you take all these?"

Snow shrugs. "Just in the past year."

"_Why_ did you take all these?" David wonders.

"I had a lot of years to make up for."

"Hey, can I have this one?" Emma slides one out of the wallet. "And this one?"

"Well, if we're trading Henry cards, I'd like that one for my wallet." David makes a selection.

Regina raises a hopeful eyebrow. "The one from the playground is absolutely delightful."

Snow takes the hint and gives her the photo. "Of course, if you'll let me have one of those where he's wearing a bow tie."

After the trades have been made, Snow gathers her photos into a tidy stack and presents them to Sabina for her squad's study. . . and then she notices Gold eyeing one of the pictures with just a hint of wistfulness. Snow glances down at it: it shows Henry hugging Baelfire.

As the others continue to pass photos around, Snow quietly moves to the old man's side. "Mr. Gold, by rights, you should have this."

Gold's chest rises and falls with a deep sigh as he accepts the photo. "Thank you, Snow."

_Dark Mountains, Enchanted Forest, Three Hundred One Years After Rumple Became the Dark One_

"Rumple!" Belle's heels clatter across the stone floors as she frantically searches the Dark Castle's furnished rooms (there are three times as many unfurnished rooms, but neither she nor he ever goes in them). "Oh my stars! Rumple!"

A claw reaches out and seizes the bow of her apron as she streaks past, and some weird force compels her to come to a complete and abrupt halt. She glances down to find her entire body encased in a shimmering gold light that feels like soft, warm fingers closing gently around her. It's awfully nice, but it's damned irritating: he's immobilized her. Fourth time this week. Well, okay, he had just cause the first time, when she tripped on her skirt and would've taken a tumble down the stairs. . . well, and the second time, when she was shaking her dust mop out a West Tower window and leaned out too far. . . maybe the third time, too, when she was clomping around outside in a pair of his boots (she couldn't be expected to wear her satin slippers in the mud, now could she?) and slipped on a stone and would've cracked her head. . . .But definitely not today. He has no right to grab her with his magic today, and she'll tell him so to his face as soon as she figures out where his face is.

The magic releases her and she hears a giggle from somewhere above. She cranes her neck to find him sitting on a rafter some thirty feet overhead, and she forgets she's mad at him. "What are you doing up there?"

"Taking a different perspective, of course."

She remembers to show him she's pissed off. "Well, as long as you're up there, why don't you dust? I'm sure those rafters have never been cleaned, and you've forbidden me from climbing ladders, so it's up to you."

"You would have the great and fearsome Dark One _dusting_?" he yelps. "What if someone should walk in and—_see me_?!"

"How many visitors have we had in the thirteen months I've been here?"

"Perhaps not so many as you had at Fairiron Castle, but _my_ visitors are important." He leaps from the rafters, graceful as a trapeze artist, and lands lightly on his feet in front of her. "Men and women of true power, not just rank."

"Humph." She folds her arms to show she's unimpressed. A clap of thunder interrupts their conversation, and a gust of wet wind swirls down the chimney and snuffs out the fire, throwing the Great Hall into darkness. "Oh!"

His hands grasp her elbows, holding her steady. "Don't move, sweet one; I don't want you tripping in the dark." He snaps his fingers and every candle in the room alights, and the fire roars back to life.

"No, I mean, oh! That reminds me why I wanted you."

Her word choice ("I wanted you") sends him into a daydream and he almost misses what she says next: "This storm blowing in is going to be fierce. It'll demolish my gardens. Can't you do something?"

He bows elegantly. "As my lady wishes. Shall I stop the storm altogether, or merely detour it?"

"No, I just want you to protect my gardens."

"Oh." He sounds disappointed but shrugs and twirls a single finger in the air, just once. "Done."

She runs to the long window (the same one she was tending when she fell and lost her ladder-climbing privileges) and peers out, squinting through the gray sheet of rain. Her herbs and vegetables are now shielded from the storm by a—well, as best she can make out, a giant shield that hovers over them.

He ambles up beside her, sets a hand against her back as he peers out too. "Will that do, sweet one?"

"Yes, thank you." She squints. "Rumple, what is that marking on the shield?"

"My crest, of course: while others may have a lion or a bull rampant on a field, I have a crocodile rampant in a swamp."

"Of course. But what's that in his mouth? A snake? A fish?"

"A chocolate éclair." He wrinkles his nose in apology. "I'd was hoping we'd have some with our afternoon tea."

The storm rages throughout the night, keeping Belle awake, which does not displease her employer; they spend the evening in cushioned chairs drawn close to the fireplace—and drawn close together, so that they can hear each other speak over the howling wind and booming thunder. Or so they tell themselves. Little smiles that pass between them suggest the closeness may serve another purpose. Rumple gets the éclairs he was hoping for, and Belle gets an audience for the stories she loves to read aloud, and both of them feel they've gotten a good deal.

The storm has passed by the time dawn awakens Belle. As usual, she's slow to come out of her sleep, even more so today because they stayed up so late last night—and because she's feeling so very comfortable with her cheek pressed against a layer of silk, beneath which something warm rises and falls, rises and falls rhythmically. But she must see to her garden, so she snuffles and raises her head.

It's his magenta silk shirt she's been sleeping on. Or, more precisely, him in his magenta silk shirt. She glances up: his head is tilted against his shoulder and his eyes are closed. She glances at her own shoulder: his arm rests there. She's not sure just how their chairs, formerly a respectable two feet apart, came to be pushed together, nor whether she fell asleep on his chest first, or he slipped his arm around her shoulder first. In either case, she decides there's no cause for embarrassment: she slept quite comfortably, and he is sleeping so, still. He doesn't get nearly enough sleep, in her opinion (though, having known no other imps, she's not sure how much sleep that species requires), so she won't disturb him: she snuggles back against his chest and drifts off again.

Sometime later, she's awakened by a change in his breathing, and she struggles to keep her eyes closed when she feels his head dip and his lips press against her forehead. She hopes if she pretends to be asleep, he'll continue to hold her, but alas, that kiss brings her adrenaline up and she begins to breathe faster.

"Good morning, sweet one." His sleep-deepened voice rumbles and she can feel the vibrations in his chest against her ear.

Reluctantly, she raises her head and smiles at him. "Good morning, Rumple."

"Did you sleep, despite the storm?"

Her eyes twinkle. "I hope it storms again tonight."

He says slowly, "That could be arranged."

After breakfast she dresses in breeches she borrows from his closet and he conjures her a properly fitting pair of boots so she can go out to inspect her produce. His garden-shield has vanished. She picks her way through the muddy rows, shaking her head mournfully because she finds nothing she can save—until she does.

Beneath a wrinkly lemon balm leaf, Belle finds a pointy-eared fairy, no bigger than a pair of stacked toffees, unconscious and bleeding but breathing. She stands and, though she knows he can hear anyone summon him, no matter how soft the voice, she shouts toward the castle. "Rumple! Rumple, come quick!"

* * *

**A/N. The next chapter is my speculation on a spoiler-but since I'm nearly always wrong with my guesses, it should be perfectly safe to read chapter 6. However, to answer a question that came up, I'm going to reveal that spoiler here-so if you hate spoilers, don't read the rest of this note! **

**At Comic Con, Robert Carlyle said in an interview, "One thing I can tell you without giving away too much is that Rumpelstiltskin and Belle will meet in Season 3, and in Neverland, in fact. But, it may not be in the fashion that you think." So I got to thinking, what could accomplish that, and offer a surprise for the fans? **


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

_Neverland, Present Time_

As the duly appointed leader (and a concerned mother) Emma breaks up the little photofest. "All right, we got places to go and people to be. Let's get this show on the road." Her royal heritage surfaces as she addresses Sabina princess to princess. "I'll go with your scouts to ID Henry and scope out the situation, look for vulnerabilities we can exploit."

"You'll find none, love," Hook admonishes, but he translates for her.

Sabina twists her head and surveys Emma skeptically before answering. "The princess says she doesn't wish to offend," Hook translates, "but you're rather too large for this expedition. They'll hear you coming a mile away. You see, the Hideout is quite the fortress, with a several layers of security. Pan has a nervous streak, so he's always on guard."

"It's a bit more than the captain is telling us," Gold amends. "In return for protecting the island from exploiters, Pan was given certain gifts of magic. He hasn't the range that I have, nor the strength that Regina and you have, but what he does, he does extremely effectively."

"It's a Hannibal Lecter kind of magic," Hook supplies. "And you, my blonde charmer, are Clarice."

"Huh?"

None of the Storybrookers understand the reference either, but Gold brushes the issue aside with an impatient gesture. "Suffice it to say Pan's modus operandi is to turn your memories and dreams against you. Psychological warfare that's difficult to combat even if you're prepared for it."

Sabina makes a suggestion, and Gold and Hook both nod—and each catching the other in mid-nod, they blink in amazement at their ability to agree on something. Gold says, "Perhaps it's best, Ms. Swan, if you don't risk yourself for this particular venture, when others can do it for you. When your boy's in danger, I know it's tempting to go all Captain Kirk, but it's Picard we need here." He shoots a quick smirk at Hook: the pirate isn't the only one who's learned a little about American pop culture.

Emma folds her arms. "Once again, I repeat, 'Huh?'"

"Send the red shirt in," Gold tilts his head toward Hook. "If someone's going to get caught. . . ." With a naughty twinkle in his eyes, Gold shrugs. "Hey, it was Princess Sabina's idea; I just provided the allusion."

"Really?" Emma stares at the pixie, who jabbers something.

Hook groans and face-palms, turning away. He's obviously not going to translate Sabina's latest suggestion, so Gold does: "The princess offers some very valid reasons for proposing the change to your plan, Ms. Swan. She says since the pirate is already familiar with the island and its inhabitants, he should be better able to get in and out without setting off alarms. Further, his fluency in Pixish will enable him to communicate with Kiri and Tanji. And of course his many years of piracy have made him a capable sneak thief."

"Well," Snow says, "that all makes sense, Emma."

"I agree with Sabina," David says. "Send in the red shirt." He throws his own smirk at Gold. "You're not the only Trekkie in town, Gold."

Gold raises his chin and does his best to look down his nose at the prince, who's a good six inches taller than he is. "The preferred term, Mr. Nolan, is Trekker. But yes, Sheriff, the logical choice is to send in your most expendable underling."

"Hey," Hook grumbles. "If anybody's Captain Pickard, it's me. I'm the ship captain here, remember? Without me, you're not getting home."

Regina wiggles her fingers. "Magic will steer the ship. Face it, Hook, by a vote of six to one, you're elected the red shirt."

"It gets better," Gold says. "Captain, would you care to explain the rest of Sabina's proposal, or shall I?"

Hook tosses a dismissive hand into the air. "It's ridiculous! She's not serious!"

"I may not be an expert on pixie humor, as you are, but she seems quite serious to me."

Regina taps her foot. "Well, Hook? Let me remind you, every minute you waste on this crap is another minute you leave Henry in danger."

"Yeah," Emma growls. "And you don't want to see what happens when _two_ magical moms get pissed off."

He finally turns back around. "Sabina is suggesting," he grits his teeth, "that I'll blend into the scenery better if she changes me into a pixie first."

Now even the pissed-off moms burst into laughter. A sound no one in Storybrooke has ever heard before joins the laughter: Gold is chuckling.

"Brilliant," David applauds, offering the princess a bow. "Hook, I don't see what you're so fired up about. She's safeguarding your life. You may be the first red shirt to make it back safe to the landing party."

Emma grants Hook no more time for protest. She nods at Sabina, who nods back, and the pixie princess sprinkles some sparkling dust into Hook's wavy hair. With a flicker of light, rather than the puff of smoke the ex-Enchanted Foresters are used to, Hook is transformed into the first pirate-pixie in history.

The Charmings and Regina press in close to admire the new recruit to Sabina's army as he floats at their eye level. He's no longer in his trademark black garb, but rather in a lemon leaf-dress. His beard has disappeared, and his facial features have been softened. The only thing familiar about him now is the guy-liner that still enhances his smoky eyes. David releases a low whistle. "I never imagined I'd ever say this, but Hook, you're a good-lookin' chick."

In the transformation, none of Hook's pirate vocabulary has been lost, as he proves by swearing like the sailor he is.

"Shove off, sailor," Emma demands. "And find Henry."

"Before I conjure a fly swatter just your size," Regina adds.

_Dark Mountains, Enchanted Forest, Three Hundred One Years After Rumple Became the Dark One_

With a skein of wool, they've made a bed of sorts for their visitor—which Belle has been informed is not a fairy but rather a pixie. Rumplestiltskin has inspected and tended the injuries and Belle has undressed the tiny body, washed it carefully, and wrapped it in her handkerchief, but still the pixie has not awakened. With an eyedropper he gives her a little much-needed water. "She's lost a lot of blood." In a colorless voice, he reports, "I expect she'll die."

Belle hovers behind him, ready to assist. "Isn't there anything we can do?"

Rumple moves away from the dining table and wipes his hands on his silk shirt. Belle excuses him that, though she's the one who has to wash the clothes. He slumps in his fireside chair, and his magic stirs the embers, bringing the flames to life. Apart from the difficulty of the work Belle's asking of him is the moral question: should he even try to save the life of a pixie? Like their cousins, they use their magic irresponsibly, throwing it around as if it were nothing more than confetti at a party. They don't interfere in people's lives to the extent that fairies do, but when they do intervene, they take from the universal pool of magic without bothering to restore the balance, and someone like the Dark One has to overcharge his clients to set things right again.

Rumple hates pixies. Why should he save one?

Belle lays her hands on his shoulders. "Please."

He closes his eyes and growls.

"She's our responsibility."

That brings him to his feet. "Don't say 'our,'" he shouts. "She's nothing to me. You know how I feel about fairies, and why; pixies are nothing more than fairies without the pretext of righteousness. That one's filled my home with fairy stench, and with her blood spilled on my table, we'll never get the stink out."

Belle gasps, then a moment later comes right back at him, thrusting herself inches from his face. "Rumplestiltskin! Your prejudice astounds me. A man like you, who's lived hundreds of years and traveled the entire world, I would expect you to know better than to brand entire race for the actions of a few. I understand why you're so furious with the Reul Ghorm, I do; I feel that way too. I'm enraged by anyone so sanctimonious and judgmental as to take a child away from his loving father. But that doesn't give you leave to hate every fairy, and certainly not that little pixie over there, who's done nothing to you and wouldn't even have trespassed onto your property if not for that awful storm. If you can save her, you _must_ save her."

He blinks and takes a step backwards, throwing his hands into the air. "All right! I'll do it, but believe me, I won't waste a second on regret if I fail. I'll do it because you asked me to, not because I forgive her kind for the havoc they cause—" his voice catches—"and for Bae."

Once again she surprises him, this time by surrounding his waist with her arms and laying her head on his chest. "I'm sorry, Rumple. I'm sorry this trouble has come to your door, but I know you'll do the right thing."

He brings his hand up to stroke her hair, and the gesture soothes him as well as her. "There was a physician I met, some years back, who showed me a way to restore blood. If it's done soon enough, before the organs are damaged, and if the blood is of the right kind, the patient may recover, he said." Rumple casts a warning glance at Belle. "But that was with a full-grown human."

Belle strokes his cheek, and whatever she asks next, he can't refuse. "Try."

He mutters some nasty words he picked up from sailors on the docks. "I'll need the right kind of blood." With a deep sigh he calls out, "Reul Ghorm! Reul Ghorm! For the sake of one of your kind, I request your presence."

Nothing happens.

He calls again, several times, but finally admits, "It's the magic within these walls. She won't enter the Dark Castle."

"Take the pixie to her, then."

"She won't survive the rigors of teleportation." Staring at his hands, he concentrates, and Belle allows him the quiet space to think. At last he conjures a second eyedropper and a vial, and with them he captures several drops of the pixie's blood from his dining table. "I'm going to my lab. I'll be back soon." He vanishes.

As she waits, Belle sits at the dining table and watches the pixie breathe shallowly. "If it can be done," she assures the patient, "he can do it. He's a very wise and learned man." Belle fashions a tiny blanket of sorts from the wool and covers the pixie.

Rumple returns in a flash, but the news he bears is unwelcome. "I tried mixing her blood with a drop of my own. It's said that pixies are half-imp, so I had hope for compatibility, but. . . .apparently I'm more Dark One than imp. The cells in my blood attacked the cells in hers."

"What else is left, then?" Belle's voice thickens. "Try mine."

"I would think human blood would be incompatible too—"

"It's our last chance, isn't it?" She presents herself to him and offers her finger. He conjures a vial and a sewing needle, and in a quick prick, he has captured a sample of Belle's blood. Just before he transports himself to his lab, she rises on her toes to kiss his cheek. "For luck."

She paces as she waits, but she doesn't complete a circle of the Great Hall before he's back again, by her side. "Kiss me again," he urges. "It worked!"

With a laugh she complies.

"All right." He turns serious, instructing Belle to sit at the dining table as he conjures a tube with a needle at one end and a plunger at the other. He pokes at the bend in Belle's arm, instructing her to make a fist. "Here we are." He presses his finger against her skin. "A vein. I'm going to take a little blood from you with this needle; I won't need much. You might want to look away while I'm filling the tube."

"Don't worry about me, Rumple. I tended war wounded—the few who made it off the battlefield." She watches with interest as he works.

The needle doesn't hurt any more than the prick to her finger did, and soon the tube is full. He leans over the pixie now. "Hold her arm steady for me. Hmm." The needle is as big as the pixie's pinkie finger, too big to be inserted into her vein; he has to shrink it down, and so that he can see what's he's doing, he conjures a strange pair of eyeglasses. "Good gods, her veins are finer than my silk thread. Think good thoughts," he mutters as he forces his hand to stop shaking. Drawing in a deep breath, he injects the needle into the pixie's arm.

Belle watches closely as he slowly pushes the plunger on the tube. "I have no idea how much to give her," Rumple complains. "There's even less known about pixie anatomy than fairy anatomy. I wish Dr. Frankenstein were here."

"You're doing fine. If anyone can save her," Belle says, "it's you."

In just a few seconds he withdraws the needle. "I hope. . . ." He sets the tube aside and again wipes his hands on his shirt. Now he allows them to shake.

Belle clutches his hands. "Thank you."

"I'm not sure, but it looks like she's getting some color back into her cheeks. Keep her warm, and try to give her some water." He wiggles a finger and his dragon-skin jacket detaches itself from the peg in his bedroom closet and flies down the stairs into his waiting arms. "I'm going to Foxglove Glen." He slips the coat on. "I'm going to try to get the Reul Ghorm to come back with me."

Belle makes herself a pot of tea as she waits. She needs to stay busy: she can't concentrate on a book or her knitting, so she takes tea and tidies up the Great Hall, returning frequently to look at the patient. She agrees with Rumple: a bit of color has returned to the pixie's cheeks, and she seems to be breathing more easily. At one point Belle thinks she hears a short moan, but the pixie doesn't awaken. Belle is sweeping out the now dead fireplace when the outer doors of the castle, and then the doors to the Great Hall, bang open and Rumple sashays in. "How does our patient, milady?"

A light just behind his shoulder flickers, and then a winged creature whose bouffant hairdo is as tall as she is dashes past Rumple and lands on the dining table.

"She seems to be improved," Belle reports, coming to the table.

The fairy raises the pixie's eyelids, then lets them fall shut again. She crouches and presses her ear against the pixie's chest. Finally, she moves her glowing wand over the body. Satisfied, she floats up from the table and hovers between Rumple and Belle. "Yes, I believe she'll recover."

Rumple takes Belle's hand in his own and they exchange a sigh and a smile. The gesture isn't lost on the fairy, who quirks an eyebrow. "Reul Ghorm," Rumple announces, "may I present Lady Belle, formerly of the Marchlands."

"Now of the Dark Mountains," Belle says proudly, and dips her head in greeting.

"How nice to see you again, Belle." But there's a coolness to the fairy's greeting. "We met a year ago, I believe it was," she explains to Rumple.

"You were not the first I asked for help against the ogres," Belle adds.

"I regret that I could not fulfill your request."

Belle blinks innocently at the Blue Fairy. "It turned out for the best. The ogres left, the duchy was saved and I found a new purpose in life."

Blue appears flummoxed until she remembers the patient. "Yes, well, my cousin seems to be resting comfortably. If it's agreeable to you, Rumplestiltskin, I'll leave her here tonight. It's best if her sleep is not disturbed."

"She will not be strong enough for travel for several days. She is"—he struggles with the word, for the patient is, after all, half-fairy, but what he is about to say will earn him a smile from Belle, so he finishes the invitation—"welcome." Rumple realizes that, despite all the reading and observation he's done of every kind of magic wielder, he's ignorant of some of the fundamentals about his guest's species. "If she were human, I would feed her red meat to replenish the blood she lost, but I'm not familiar with the dietary habits of pixies."

The elevation of the Blue Fairy's nose as she answers the implied question makes it clear she finds the human practice of meat consumption barbaric, but since the Dark One is making an effort at civility, she will too. She moderates her tone. "Like us, they do not eat meat. Nuts, fruits, flowers of various kinds—we take our nourishment from these."

"I shall return for her in one week, then." The fairy starts to move away, but Belle halts her with a question that she knows Rumplestiltskin is itching to ask. "Reul Ghorm, do you happen to know her name?"

Blue shakes her head. "I haven't made her acquaintance yet, but I suppose she's come as an ambassador from her tribe to mine. A cultural exchange." Again, she starts to leave, but hesitates long enough to add, glancing from the castle caretaker to the castle owner, "Thank you."

Rumplestiltskin lowers his eyelids, which Belle recognizes as a sign of suspicion, but he bows. "Good morrow to you, Reul Ghorm."

"Good morrow to you, Belle, Rumplestiltskin." The fairy flies out the open doors.

_Neverland, Present Time_

The Charmings and Regina are literally drawing lines in the sand. Three of them have led armies, won battles, fought with and against magic, so each of those three believes he or she should direct the battle to come, and each tries to convince the others with squiggles and X's and O's that to Emma look more like football plays than battle plans. Snow, David and Regina are all confident, skilled, experienced generals—but Emma is the chosen one, as far as the pixies are concerned. She will make the final decision.

As the planners crouch over their squiggles, Gold fades back. No one notices him leave; even if they had, they probably wouldn't have objected; he's never been a team player. Once they've settled on a plan, they'll call him in to figure out the magic artillery to implement the plan.

Gold's nose is twitching. It's been a very, very long time, so he can't be sure, but he thinks he's detecting a familiar odor: woodsmoke, human sweat, and something decayed, like a rat that crawled beneath a pile of wet leaves before it died of snake bite.

Felix.

Gold reminds himself he's Rumplestiltskin now, not a middle-aged, lame businessman. He's the ageless, all-powerful (so the legends say), all-seeing (ditto) Dark One, so he needs to walk and talk and sneer like it. He feels eyes upon him—lifeless eyes, just as incapable of anger or fear as they are of friendship or affection. He strolls, because he's the Dark One and the Dark One never rushes, through dense woods, silent, for no birds exist in Neverland. When he comes to a clearing he conjures a flat boulder for a seat and he lowers himself to it, straight-backed and regal, as if ready to hold court. The odor is strong now. "Come out and say hello, dearie." It's a help, he thinks, to have Gold's lower-pitched voice instead of Rumple's half-maniacal one.

A hooded figure carrying a club over his shoulder emerges and greets him in a monotone. Even without the odor to go on, Gold would recognize that dead voice. As Gold sits on his rock unperturbed, Felix circles warily, positioning the club between his body and Gold's. He gives a pretty welcome; after so many years, if Rumple's memory were not so sharp, he might actually believe that through Felix, Pan is extending a hand of friendship—but as tempting as it is to believe, as achingly as Rumple wants to believe, Rumple hasn't forgotten who Pan is, what he has done and what the Dark One's reemergence means to him. A truce this time is not an option, not with Bae's son at stake.

"If you go against him, you will not survive."

There. The words are spoken; the prophesy, now vocalized, is made reality. Gold's heart is beating like a marching-band drum: so much to live for: Belle, the shop, a home. So much to die for: Bae's forgiveness, Henry's destiny.

Rumplestiltskin's and Gold's sins.

But he pulls back his lips to flash his teeth. "The question isn't 'Will I survive?'" Rumple rises, smoothly, as though this is _his_ land and he's just caught a trespasser. "Because we both know I won't. The real question is"—he grabs Pan's lackey by the coat, and though he's a good six inches shorter, Gold stands on equal footing—"how many of you I take with me."

Felix is unruffled by the threat. He's already dead inside; so what if Rumplestiltskin demolishes his body? "One last thing: there's something he wanted you to have." Felix produces a stick figure from his cape and tosses it at Rumple's feet. Rumple sneers, ready to make a remark about Pan resorting to voodoo, but then he gets a good look at Pan's "gift." It's a primitive toy, the kind of thing a child would make for himself if he had no one to make toys for him, a faceless, stiff-limbed doll. If not for one unique property, the doll would be meaningless. But it does have that one unique, memorable property: it's dressed in a blue jacket emblazoned with white lightning bolts.

Even before he recognizes it, Rumple _feels_ what it is. A sob escapes him and he drops to his knees, reaching out for the doll, but wanting to throw it away just as much as he wants to pick it up. But he picks it up and clutches it, and as he sobs into it he knows Pan has already won in one clean stroke.

_Dark Mountains, Three Hundred One Years After Rumple Became the Dark One_

When night falls, Rumple brings down the chaise longue from Belle's chambers and positions it near the dining table. Belle stacks it with blankets and pillows; she sleeps here, close by should the pixie stir. Rumple kisses her palm and claims he's going to his chambers to sleep, but periodically throughout the night he wanders back to the Great Hall to check on the patient: Belle pretends to be asleep so she won't catch the Dark One in an act of kindness. The night passes much more quietly than the previous one, though Belle thinks she slept better on Rumple's chest than on her goose-down pillows.

She wonders how long it will take him to figure out that he would sleep better too, if he slept beside her.

In the morning she's in the kitchen preparing breakfast when a finger taps her shoulder and an unfamiliar voice greets her. She swings around, her skillet at the ready, for, as Rumple has taught her, she must be prepared to defend herself against the Dark One's ruthless enemies. She laughs in surprise as a little ball of light flits backwards to avoid the skillet. "Oh! I'm sorry; you startled me."

The ball of light comes closer and grows larger, until she's the size of the porcelain doll that Belle owned as a child. Her complexion is just as delicate, and her two gossamer wings flutter nervously. The pixie vocalizes, but Belle doesn't recognize what she's saying; the pixie tries again, and this time Belle nods eagerly: the pixie is speaking the language of Sherwood Forest, one of a half-dozen languages in which Belle had been tutored, in the halcyon days before the ogres invaded the Marchlands. The pixie lands on the kitchen table, between the pot of butter and the the jar of honey.

"Good morning! You seem much better," Belle says. Her pronunciation is a bit accented—she hasn't spoken Sherwan in months—but the pixie understands her.

"Good morning. I wish to thank you for rescuing me," the pixie jabbers. "I thought I was done for! I was on my way to Foxglove Glen when a ferocious storm blew me off-course, and the winds threw me around and I fell and a pine needle punctured my leg and I started bleeding and after that everything went black." Exhausted with her storytelling effort, the pixie stumbles backwards and plops down on her fanny.

Belle chuckles. "Be careful; you'll wear yourself out. Let's start with something simple. My name is Belle, and this is the Dark Castle. We're two days' ride from Foxglove Glen—or I guess an hour or two as the fairy flies."

"I'm Clochette of Neverland." She lifts one of her legs and inspects it. "My wound is gone. How did that happen?"

"Magic. My—" Belle pauses. Technically, Rumple is her master, but that's not the true nature of their relationship. But _friend_ is too vague and _lover_—well, no such words have been exchanged. Yet. "The master of this castle is a powerful wizard, and he healed you."

"But it was Belle's blood that saved you." Speaking Sherwan, Rumple appears in the passageway between the kitchen and the stores. He carries a box that he sets down on the table. As he opens the lid, he identifies the contents: "White tea, from the Camellia plant. Medicinal."

"The master of the house, Rumplestiltskin," Belle makes the introductions. "Rumple, this is Clochette, from Neverland."

His eyebrows shoot up for just a moment, but his manners are as smooth as always. "Welcome, Clochette, to the Dark Castle. Your cousin the Reul Ghorm has been informed of your presence here and will come for you in a week, if you are fit to travel then." He starts to say something else, then grabs his nose to staunch a sneeze. "Pardon me. I'm allergic to fairy dander."

The pixie cocks her head. "I shall do my best to avoid shedding. Thank you just the same, Rumplestiltskin, for your hospitality and your rescue of me."

He nods. "But as I was saying, it was Belle's doing as much as mine." As he prepares the tea, he relates the story to his guest.

The pixie seizes her arm. "I have human blood in me?"

"You do, and it doesn't seem to have resulted in any ill effects." Rumple conjures a thimble and spoons tea into it. "Do you prefer milk and sugar in your tea?"

"I know what milk is," she says thoughtfully, "but what is sugar?"

Belle grins. "Oh, Clochette, are you in for a treat."

Rumple drops a few grains of brown sugar into the thimble. "And if you like this, dearie, just wait until we get to ice cream."

As she plates a portion of smoked salmon for her employer/beloved, Belle murmurs into his ear, "Thank you. You won't regret your kindness to her."

He murmurs back, "If I do, sweet one, you'll owe me a favor."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

_Neverland, Present Time_

It's over. All that's left is to tell his fellow searchers. Rumple stuffs the doll into his dragon-skin jacket. Its stiff arms scratch his chest—he doesn't have scales any more to protect his skin. He stands to make his way back to the beach to urge the Charmings and Hook and Regina to turn the ship about and—and he's not sure what. Without a magic bean or a portal jumper, they have no way to go home, or anywhere else for that matter. Pan will get them, too, just as he's gotten Rumplestiltskin.

There is a small sound, a throat clearing, coming from behind him; a finger taps his shoulder and he spins around. "No. Despair is not your color, Rumplestiltskin. Of all the people I've ever met, you are the most hopeful."

Floating at his eye-level, she is a most welcome sight—unless it's a trick of Pan. Unless Pan has reached into his memories yet again to pull out this vision, make it real and make use of it to gain information—still, he can't help gasping, "Clochette?"

With great dignity, the pixie thrusts her chin high. "Clochette-Belle," she corrects, and then he laughs because he's convinced she's real and she's her own person, not Pan's. She grins now. Her Sherwan is rusty, but her sentiments are crystal clear. "_Acting Queen_ Clochette-Belle, that is. Hello, Rumplestiltskin. I heard a rumor of the presence of a man in dragon skin; I came to see for myself because it could only be you. I'm so glad this moment, which our queen foresaw many years ago, has come. Your victory—"

"My victory?" he sputters.

"Your victory," she repeats firmly. "Your victory is our victory. The rescue of your loved one is the rescue of our loved one. The reunion of your family, your _entire_ family, is the reunion of our family. We stand with you, because we are you: your people's blood flows in my veins." She runs a finger along her inner arm, tracing the memory of the blood infusion he and Belle provided her, long ago. She continues, "You know how Pan works, Rumple: you know that his weapons are your grief, your guilt, your shame, your hatred. But those things all come from within you, remember; and for every one of your emotions that he can turn into a weapon, you have emotions that you can turn into a shield. So when he throws your despair at you, you throw back celebration.

"Celebrate the fact that you have tears to let flow, because that means you have a heart, when he doesn't; celebrate the fact that you have people to cry for, because that means you love and are loved, and he does not. And take strength, Rumplestiltskin, because some of your loved ones are on this island, one of them where you least expect her."

But he's still stuck on the _your victory _part, and now is the time for perfect clarity, if they are to battle Pan. "You have me at a disadvantage, dearie. Perhaps you could explain more plainly?"

She claps her hands joyously, but instead of fulfilling his request, she fades.

"No!" he pleads. "Where are you going? I need answers!"

"Soon! But right now, there's someone else you need to see more than me." And the pixie vanishes.

_Dark Mountains, Three Hundred One Years After Rumple Became the Dark One_

Evening has fallen, and as is their custom, he and Belle are taking dinner in the Great Hall. Belle likes to make this meal a rather formal occasion, unlike their morning meal, which they take in the kitchen: she always serves five courses, and she uses the golden goblets and cutlery and the bone china. She insists upon "dressing for dinner," as she calls it, a tradition her own family followed faithfully, even while war raged in the village below their castle. This "dressing" custom suits Rumplestiltskin just fine, as he's a bit vain about his clothes (to compensate, he realizes, for the pride he can't take in his complexion or his brawn or even his teeth), and he relishes the admiration (with sometimes just a faint undercurrent of desire) with which Belle welcomes him to table, she in her lace and silk and gold-threaded gowns, her hair upswept (inspiring in him sometimes a powerful undercurrent of desire).

So they have "dressed for dinner" and gone out of their way for it, too, as they have their first dinner guest, even if she is half-fairy: "Can't have her go reporting to the Reul Ghorm that the Dark One is a slob, can we," he muttered as the excuse for conjuring a new silk shirt for himself and new satin slippers for Belle. Belle has spent the entire day cooking, with the pixie helping as much as her depleted energy allows, for they've become fast friends; and now the dining table groans under three platters of meat, four bowls of vegetables, plates of cheeses, breads, fruits and figs (some that Rumple has brought back from his travels in exotic lands), and pitchers of ale. "Be sure to leave room for dessert!" Belle chirps as she loads their plates with double servings of everything.

The pixie has been set up on top of the grand dining table, in a tiny chair and at a tiny table that Rumple nailed together for her. She casts a warning look at her host. "Oh yes, _four_ kinds of cake and hand-cranked ice cream!"

Belle drops her napkin onto the floor, and when she bends down to retrieve it, the pixie darts the length of the table, whispers a warning in Rumple's ear, and darts back again before Belle has straightened. Rumple gives the pixie a grateful nod, for she has solved the dilemma that she and he both face in the face of all this food: how to consume quantities sufficient to reward Belle for her tremendous effort. And so begins Rumplestiltskin's first conspiracy with a pixie.

"Perhaps there is some truth to the theory that pixies are half-imp," Rumple starts the conversation as he spreads his napkin across his lap. "I see that we both have an oversized sweet tooth."

"Oh yes," Clochette seizes the topic. "Even in Neverland, where we have none of the wonderful delights that Belle has cooked for me today, we are easily distracted by anything sweet. We have honey, of course, and we make our own syrups and candies, but cakes and pies and cookies—oh! My sisters' mouths will water when I tell them what your world has to offer."

"Tell me more about your cooking, and your clothes, and your houses, and your medicines, and—just everything!" Belle urges, for she longs to travel. "I want to know all about Neverland."

"Oh, well, the first thing to know about Neverland is that it's never one land." Now that she has Belle's undivided attention, the pixie lauches into a detailed and highly animated description of her home country—

and Rumplestiltskin, free of any of Belle's attention, leans on one elbow, his hand bracing his chin as though he's rapt in the description, but his pinkie finger juts out and a little puff of smoke suddenly makes all the food on his plate disappear.

As Clochette finishes her explanation about the shifting geography of Neverland, Rumple raises his plate toward Belle. "I'll take a second helping of everything, sweet one."

Belle practically preens as she fills his plate. "So you really liked it all? I wasn't sure about the turkey: it seemed a little dry."

As Rumple waxes lyrical about the turkey, Clochette has just enough time to make her plateful of food vanish, and she asks for seconds. And so they proceed, the pixie and the imp, through third servings, until Belle exclaims for joy at the success of her cooking, and then her diners call for the four cakes and the ice cream, and as Belle rises to fetch the desserts from the kitchen, she pats her eyes with her napkin. "This is—just wonderful. I'm so happy—overwhelmed!" There's a catch in her voice. "You know, Rumple, how difficult it's been for me to get this part of my job right—how many cookbooks I've pored over, how many pans I've scorched, how many of our pigs I've made sick by feeding them my failed attempts to bake bread! And to see you really enjoying what I cooked—asking for _thirds_!" The tears come and she runs off to the kitchen to compose herself.

Rumplestiltskin sits back down in his high-backed chair. "Wow."

Clochette blinks hard. "Yes. Wow."

"I don't think I've even seen her so happy," Rumple comments. After a moment to collect his thoughts, he adds, "I still don't like pixies, but for you I'll make an exception."

"Thank you, Rumplestiltskin." The pixie dabs at her mouth with her napkin. "Do you happen to know any spells to 'make room' for four kinds of cake?

* * *

During her stay in the Dark Castle, Clochette learns a great deal about the Enchanted Forest and the ways of humans. Surprised, she is, that she learns about two kinds of human love, romantic and familial, from the most evil being in the realm and his lady.

She even learns a little about magic, more than she will from her superior in the Foxglove Glen, who prefaces each practicum with hours of lecture on ethics. Although Rumplestiltskin keeps his trade secrets close to the vest, his craving for deals and for new knowledge drives him to make small exchanges of information with the pixie.

Those small exchanges blossom when Clochette mentions the name Peter Pan. Rumple has read of this personage, but knows no one who has ever met him, for he's considered far too dangerous for travelers to willingly venture to his land. Neverland's Dark One, some writers call him, but others claim he's much older and possibly even darker, for while Rumple has crushed snails and hearts, Pan, it's said, crushes minds. The Dark One will steal your child and your kingdom, but Pan will steal your sanity and your soul.

Though curious, of course, from a professional standpoint, Rumplestiltskin has managed to resist the temptation to visit Neverland to verify the legends. He's not so sure he really wants to find out if Pan is the darkest of dark mages. But here, in his own home, safe and warm and too-well-fed, Rumple is given the rare opportunity to learn the truth from one who has had many an encounter with Pan, and so he gladly trades a few magic lessons for all the stories Clochette can tell about the shifting land and its black-hearted master.

Belle sets aside her books to absorb these fresh stories. She sings little songs as she cooks and cleans with joy for the comfort of her guest and her employer/beloved, and Rumple thinks perhaps he should open his home more often, if he can find other guests he can tolerate.

From behind open doors and around corners Belle sometimes spies on Rumplestiltskin. It's not that she doesn't trust him; on the contrary. It's that she does, and she takes great satisfaction in finding evidence of the rightness of her decision to trust him. At three and a half centuries of age, he's growing. He'll never admit it and she'll never embarrass him by mentioning it, but he's begun to forget that he hates pixies, and that's a start, Belle thinks, toward forgetting hatred altogether. Someday, he'll learn to see the trees for the forest.

* * *

A heavy tome about gardening in her lap, Belle is resting in her kitchen after an afternoon of mopping the mud Rumple tracked in today. She has a stew on the stove and a bake mete in the oven and bread rising in a crock, and her kitchen smells wonderful, but now she's so-o-o tired. As she reads a chapter about fertilizer, she can't focus; her thoughts wander to the pixie, whom the Reul Ghorm came to claim at noon. Clochette wasn't around long, but she was amusing company and Belle misses her already. Clochette has promised to stop by again before she leaves for Neverland, once her pilgrimage is completed, but that will be a year from now.

Belle sighs. The only people Rumple ever brings home are people she would rather not entertain. Over breakfast this morning, Clochette regaled them with tale after tale of life in Neverland; Rumple listened with great interest. Apparently, there are still a few things the centuries-old Dark One doesn't know.

Belle gives up on the book and sets it on the table. Stretching her legs out, she kicks off her shoes. Her chin makes contact with her clavicle and her eyes slide closed.

"For our first series of lessons, I thought we'd start with plant lore. The forest is abundant with plant life. . . ." A familiar voice drones on. As interesting as plants are, this speaker makes them downright dull. Her tone is so authoritative—one might say, bossy. Belle tunes her out and looks around.

And then she gasps and grasps the nearest solid thing, a tree limb. She and her tutor are seated on a very narrow branch at the top of a tree, and that branch is swaying in the breeze. Belle's eyes jerk open and she whimpers a small "help" that her tutor, the lady in the blue tutu and mile-high coif, doesn't hear over her own droning.

Belle gulps. Don't look down, don't look down, don't look—so of course she looks and vertigo strikes her and she teeters, and when the breeze kicks into a blast of wind, the branch tosses and Belle slips, falling even as the Blue Fairy drones on about the properties of aloe. She shrieks as she falls, the ground rushing up at her. She's going to die, painfully and messily, and she kicks her feet because she can't think of anything else to do—

And her wings flap powerfully and stop her fall. Now she's rising and clutching at her back, trying to figure out where those wings came from. And this off-the-shoulder moss green dress—this scandalously short moss green dress—where did she get that? But her wings have a mind of their own, for they take her diving and rising again, soaring across the sky, until an annoyed voice demands, "Cousin! I thought you came here to learn, not play!"

She answers, but the language that comes from her tongue is none she's ever heard before. She has no idea where her knowledge of the sounds comes from—the sounds that imitate bells.

"Sweet one? Are you all right?" A claw gives her shoulder a shake.

She pries her eyes open. She's staring at her apron: she recognizes the tomato stain that she's scrubbed and scrubbed but can't get out. Under the apron is the pink dress that she bought at Market Day last month. Under the skirt are her bare feet.

"Belle?" Her master/friend/almost-beloved kneels before her, patting her hand.

"Oh," she groans. "What a dream."

He offers her a cup of cool water. "A lucid one, it seems." He sniffs, then turns to open the oven and take out the bake mete. "Perhaps you'd like to talk about it over supper?"

She shrugs. "I don't think so. I'd just as soon forget it."

"Sometimes dreams are more than what they seem, sweet one."

"And sometimes dreams are just dreams." She pulls on her shoes. "Are you ready for supper, Rumple?"

"You just stay put and I'll dish up the stew." As he pours a cup of goat's milk for her, he studies her with a frown. Forgetting about the stew, he drags a chair next to hers and takes her hands. "Belle, this dream—I don't think it was a dream."

"What do you mean?" She really doesn't want to relive her nightmare, but with his knee touching hers and his thumbs drawing soothing circles on her backs of her hands, whatever he wants to talk about is okay with her, as long as it keeps him right where he is.

"For one thing, when I came in, you were standing on the table and talking in Pixish."

"Pixish?" she exclaims.

"My Pixish isn't very good, but I think you were asking for more ice cream."

And the next thing she knows, he's talked her into trying to return to that nightmare state—on purpose.

* * *

"How fascinating." Rumplestiltskin's gaze ping-pongs from the pixie to his housekeeper/beloved. "All right, now just relax, Belle, and let it happen. I won't let anything dangerous happen, I promise."

Belle closes her eyes and breathes as he taught her to, slowly and deeply; as thoughts enter her mind, she dismisses them and they crumple like autumn leaves and blow away. She feels her body becoming lighter, smaller. . . rising. . . . her eyelids lift and she's looking down on Rumplestiltskin; it occurs to her that the part in his hair is uneven. On the other side of the Great Hall dining table, a young woman with tousled brown hair sits with her hands folded in her lap. She's wearing a robin's egg blue dress, her favorite because it was the first one Rumple gave her. Panic creeps across Belle's skin, because this young woman at the dining table looks exactly like the Belle.

Rumple asks the young woman something in a language Belle doesn't recognize, and she answers in that language. He then turns to Belle, and his face tilts up. He calls up to her. "How do you feel, sweet one?"

"Weightless." She tips her wings and floats down to the table top, where she dances a jig on the expansive surface. Odd: that table wasn't nearly this big a minute ago. "And small. Very small." She patters across the table to perch on Rumple's shoulder. His ear is so huge she could almost curl up in it. He peers at her from the corner of his eye and she's startled at the size of his irises. "Ohhh. . . ." She has to clutch a handful of his hair to maintain her balance. "This is so. . . ohhhh."

"Accept it, don't try to think about it. It's an adventure; life is a grand adventure, nothing to fear."

"What's happening?" Belle gasps.

"Breathe, Belle; catch your breath. Magic is happening, blood magic; you and Clochette are exchanging consciousness."

"What?"

"Your mind is in her body and hers is in yours." Belle wants to smack him because her world is turning inside out and he's grinning like he's just discovered the Fountain of Youth or something. "I've never seen anything like this. Belle, you and Clochette are making history!"

She moans, "I don't want to make history." She wants him to take her into his arms, bring steadiness back, make the magic go away. But he's so huge that he'd crush her if he tried to hug her; a sneeze from him would be a hurricane to her. She looks around frantically for something normal, something she can trust.

"Don't worry! It will stop in a few minutes. You can learn to control it."

The woman in the blue dress smiles at Belle and chatters. She holds up her hands, turning them back and forth. She laughs.

Rumple translates for Belle. "Clochette says she feels like a giant. She wants to walk in the garden; she wonders if she could squish a tomato beneath her toes."

Belle shudders. "I don't like being this small. It scares me."

"You can change your size; you have access to Clochette's magic. Just imagine yourself growing. Don't think; just see it happening."

Belle does her best to follow his instructions, but she doesn't understand how she can make the magic work and yet not think about it. She pinches her eyes shut.

When she opens them, she's staring at the surface of the dining table. His chipped cup is there, a stain encircling its rim. She needs to wash it; she picks it up, and that's when she realizes she's full-sized again. Or, more correctly: she's back in her own body again.

"Shall we try it again tomorrow?" Clochette asks, her eyes bright. "I would like to see the garden through your body."

"I—I don't think so," Belle stammers. "If you don't mind"—she means both Clochette and Rumple; she doesn't want to disappoint either of them—"I think I just want to stay—me."

"Of course," Clochette says. "Thank you for the opportunity. It was fun!"

"Magic can be disconcerting, sweet one. Enough experimenting." Rumple turns to the pixie. "Let's talk some more about Neverland. Tell me about the Lost Boys. For example." He summons from his lab the sketch of Baelfire that Milah drew so long ago and shows it to the pixie. "I've heard rumors—"

Clochette flaps her wings excitedly as she flies up and down, left and right, scanning every detail in the pencil drawing. Rumple regrets now that he'd been too poor at the time to buy Milah pastels or paints.

But Clochette doesn't need color after all. "How, my friend, did you come by this likeness of one of the Lost Boys?"


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

**A/N. The quotation Belle shares in this chapter comes from Elisabeth Kubler-Ross.**

* * *

_Dark Mountains, Three Hundred One Years After Rumple Became the Dark One_

"It's true?" Rumple is struggling now and Belle grasps his hand to ground him. She's never seen him like this before. In their time together, he has on rare occasion allowed her to see him worried, disheartened, ashamed, lonely–he's made himself vulnerable to her, only her. But she's never seen him like this: hanging by a frayed thread of hope. One word from the pixie and he'll lose his grip and crash into despair–or a different word from Clochette will lift him to a height he's never reached before. Belle fights back tears as she waits with him for the word.

Clochette cocks her head and peers at the sketch again, then gives them the word. "Baelfire."

Belle and Rumple grab each other, laughing and kissing (and there may be a couple of tears involved). "Baelfire!" Rumple laughs. "She said 'Baelfire'!" And Belle giggles wildly. "She didn't say 'James' or 'David' or 'Richard' or 'Michael.' How many Baelfires can there be?"

Clochette wrinkles her forehead. "In Neverland, just one."

"'In Neverland,' she said!" Rumple hoots, and he thrums his boots on the wooden floor. "Neverland—where there's magic! Where portal jumpers can travel! Belle, I've got to—"

"Of course you do! As soon as Jefferson can grab his hat!"

Rumple leaps to his feet and summons a cloud of magic. Then he thinks of something more urgent and he halts the transportation spell in mid-conjure. "Clochette! Is he all right?"

"Yes, he is well, but he's a captive. Before you rush off, Rumplestiltskin, with intentions of raiding Peter Pan's kingdom, we must talk and form a strategy."

Rumple whisks the cloud away and settles into his chair again. He sees the wisdom in Clochette's counsel, and he has patience beyond patience, and now he has fact to support his hope. "Dear child, strategy is my greatest power. Let's talk."

_Neverland, Present Time_

Pixie light flickers in mid-air, at Rumplestiltskin's eye level. "Clochette?" he calls, and for a second the pixie appears again, then vanishes again. The light brightens until Rumple has to shield his eyes. When it dims out, what he sees in its place renders him speechless.

She's wearing a sapphire blue blouse that matches her eyes, and black jeans and sneakers, and she clutches her hands to her chest. She appears to be a little dizzy, but when her eyes focus, she throws her arms wide and rushes at him, holding him tight and calling his name. He answers with her name, and lifts her by the waist and swings her around as he kisses her, putting into the kiss all those days filled with longing when he couldn't kiss her in the Dark Castle, followed by all those days when he couldn't kiss her because she didn't remember who she was, followed by those days when he kissed her half-heartedly because she was Lacey and the guilt confused him. He sets her down and kisses her again, then a third time so she'll have something to remember him by, because this might be their last chance.

"I was going through some files in City Hall," she laughs. "I've been voted Acting Mayor until you all come home and a proper election can be held. I was studying the Town Charter when I felt this—vibration—come over me, and I heard a voice in my head, and I knew right away it was Clochette, because Rumple, I am trying very very hard never to forget anything ever again."

"Belle, sweetheart, are you all right? Are you safe?" He cups her face in his hands.

"I cast the cloaking spell. Blue helped me. It seems to be working: we've had no new outsiders coming in, or even phoning. We're maintaining a border patrol, just in case."

"That's wise. In the Louis XIV cabinet in my workroom, you'll find my collection of magic books. You should read them too, just in case, and familiarize yourself with the potions on the shelves in the basement of the house. Belle, the house, the car, all the rental properties—"

"Yes, the banker told me you'd signed everything over to me. Rumple, I wish you hadn't. It's like you gave up before you even tried." Her eyes glisten and with the pad of his thumb he wipes a tear from her cheek.

"It's prophesied, Belle. Not even the combined powers of the Dark One and the Evil Queen and the Savior can change the plans of the Fates."

"Oh, pooh, I don't accept that. I can't believe that after all we've been through, we don't have a future together. You're always talking about magic's price: well, we paid a heavy one in advance, so magic owes us a future." She presses a kiss to his hand. "Please, Rumple, do this for me: believe that we will be together again, after you find Henry."

"Belle, a Seer left no room for doubt: the boy will be my undoing. Whether she meant Henry or Pan, it doesn't matter, but I won't survive this battle. It's the price I have to pay for crimes too many to count and too awful to recount." He strokes her hair. "It's not fair to you, to be cursed with the Dark One as your true love, but you're brave and strong and good, Belle. You'll live a full life—"

She grabs his arms and shakes him. "Rumplestiltskin! I won't put up with that sort of talk. Listen to me: show me you believe that our love is true by believing we'll be together again. Say it."

"I can't—"

"Say it, and true love's magic will make it happen."

"I can't—"

"Please. It's all I ask. I need to hear you say it. I can't be strong without you unless I know you're coming back."

He closes his eyes and rests his forehead against hers. "I love you, Belle, with a love strong enough to see us both through." He opens his eyes and invites her to look into his soul, because if their wish is possible, the power to make it real can come only from the soul. "Wait for me, Belle. I'm coming home."

She cheers and hugs him again. "I won't let you go, ever." Her body starts to vibrate and shimmer and she clutches him. "Rumple! I think it's weakening—I'm going back—but I'll see you again; as soon as the magic will allow, I'll trade places with Clochette again." She's fading away: he can't feel her in his arms any more. "Rumple! Don't worry about me, and I won't worry about you. You will succeed." He can see through her now, like a ghost. "Listen—last night I was sitting at your dining table reading, and I looked up, and the last of the sunlight was pouring through your stained glass windows, and it must be the Fates telling us something, because this is what I read: 'People are like stained-glass windows. They sparkle and shine when the sun is out, but when the darkness sets in, their true beauty is revealed only if there is a light from within.' You have true beauty, Rumple, and that's why I—" she vanishes.

"Love you," he finishes.

_Dark Mountains, Three Hundred One Years After Rumple Became the Dark One_

A very brief trip, Rumple swears up and down: a couple of hours, most likely; at most, overnight, and then he'll be home. In and out, cleanly and quietly. Rumplestiltskin is the most powerful mage in the universe: he'll use that power to keep himself and Jefferson safe from Pan, Lost Boys, Red Indians, pirates and whatever else might react negatively to strangers on the island. While Jefferson protects the portal (and his own hide) on the beach, Clochette will lead Rumple, in disguise, to the Lost Boys' Hideout, and when nobody's looking, they'll grab Bae and run. If he has to, Rumple will use his magic to stun the Lost Boys just long enough to escape.

Jefferson says no, absolutely no, unquestionably no. Belle says, "Can I come?" It takes some smooth talking to unruffled those feathers (and in Jefferson's case, a barnful of spun gold). Clochette, as much as she's come to admire and respect Belle, sides unequivocally with Rumple that Belle must not make this excursion: "I've told you how Pan works," she says. "How he reaches into your memories and dreams and with them pushes you into madness. It would take him not even the lifespan of a single breath to learn that Rumplestiltskin loves you, Belle"—and at this, both the imp and the housekeeper look away from each other in embarrassment, but a moment later, both sneak sideways glances at each other. "As soon as Pan sees that, he will make Belle his particular target, for if there's one thing Pan dreads more than the Dark One, it's True Love. True Love has never existed in Neverland; if it ever arrived—if even one of the Lost Boys ever believed in the love of a parent or a sibling—that child would demand to go home, and Pan's control over them would weaken. So Belle, you must not go, not now at least, because Pan would direct all his destructiveness at you, to break you and Rumple both, and to crush True Love before it could gain a foothold on the island."

Belle surrenders to the argument with a deep sigh. Though she finally says she's not hurt by Rumple's refusal to take her, there are no desserts for dinner any more. Rumple was hoping for blueberry pie, but he'd rather have an unscathed Belle waiting safely at home for his return.

As they say their goodbyes, Clochette places her tiny hand in Belle's. "Thank you, Belle, for all you've taught me."

"Thank you, Clochette. I learned so much from you too. I'll never forget you."

"Nor I you. We are sisters now, Belle, bound by blood and magic, and that's a powerful thing. If you ever need me, you need only call me to mind." Clochette curtseys in mid-air. "And so that your name will be celebrated in my tribe, from now on my name will be Clochette-Belle."

"It's beautiful. I'm honored more than words can say, Clochette-Belle." Belle places her hand over her heart.

Jefferson kneels and sends his hat into a spin. "Time to go, people. Three in, three out! If we don't find Bae—"

"We will," Rumple flattens his mouth.

Jefferson straightens. "If we don't, Clochette-Belle, consider the Enchanted Forest your new home, 'cause I'm sure as hell not getting trapped in Neverland."

Belle seizes Rumple for a farewell hug. "I'll have a blueberry pie waiting when you and Baelfire get home."

Rumple blinks hard and echoes her. "When Baelfire and I get home." He lifts her chin as if he would kiss her, but he has to settle for pressing his lips to her forehead. "When we get home, I'll kiss you properly. I promise, Belle."

Belle's mouth falls open, for she realizes the full import of that promise.

"We'll be home soon, sweet one." Rumple is the first to jump into the hat's vortex.

_Neverland, Present Time_

Rumple returns to his companions—his fellow _heroes_, he dares to think now, for Belle/Clochette has convinced him he will earn the right to count himself a hero too—with a lengthened stride and raised chin. He will die in this effort, but he's sure now he'll take Pan down in the process, and Henry and the Lost Boys will be freed and somehow, the Charmings or Regina will find the means to take everyone home. Henry will come into his kingdom, fulfill all the prophesies have foretold, and through his achievements Baelfire's life will be celebrated—and perhaps, in whatever place Bae walks now (for Rumplestiltskin is as certain that an afterlife or multiple afterlives exist as he is that the Dark One will never see them), he will see what Rumple has done and will finally forgive him.

As he approaches, even before he clears through the brush and can see the team, he realizes someone is missing: the brimstone scent is gone, which means Regina is gone. Pixie Hook and Sabina are talking rapidly, too fast for the pixilated pirate to translate for the Charmings and too fast for Rumple to catch it all. As soon as the talkers pause for breath, Emma and Snow interrupt, demanding information, while Rumple asks loudly, "Where is Regina?"

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," David overrides all other conversation. "Before we go any farther, Captain, don't you want to return to your full size and manliness? It's just too weird looking at you in a dress."

Pixie Hook curses in several languages, then calms himself and, smoothing his skirt, makes the request of Sabina. With a dash of fairy dust he's large and in charge again, running his hand across his beard and sighing in relief that it's back.

"Where is Regina?" Rumple asks again.

But Snow shrugs. "We assumed she went to the, you know, ladies'."

"Now, what'd you see in Pan's camp?" Emma queries.

"We went to the Hideout—that's what the Lost Boys call their camp. It's a cluster of caves and ramshackle shacks and tunnels. First we eavesdropped on Felix and Fulk—they're two of Pan's lieutenants. They were gossiping about something Pan had done. When Tamara and Greg dragged Henry in, Pan congratulated them, threw a feast for them, then announced he was sending them on a much-deserved vacation. So they packed their bags and Pan produced a top hat—"

"A portal jumper!" David guesses. "Snow! We have a way to go home now."

"That's what it was, but I'm not jumping through a hat. I won't leave the _Jolly Roger_." Hook objects.

Snow touches his arm sympathetically. "We'll figure out a way, Killian. Now you were saying about Greg and Tamara?"

"Yes, well, Pan sent them, bag and baggage, through the portal. They must have thought they were off to a beach somewhere, because they were wearing sunglasses and swim wear. Hmm." He licks his lips. "Another sign of progress: the swim fashions of your world. Tamara had this tiny yellow bikini with barely enough cloth to dress a hummingbird—"

Emma punches him in the shoulder. "Hook! That woman killed my son's father!"

"And my son." Rumple bares his teeth.

"So," Hook clears his throat. "After they'd gone, Pan revealed to his lieutenants where he'd sent them for their vacation: Wonderland."

Snow and Charming hoot and embrace each other in celebration; Emma lifts her hand in the air. "Come on, Gold, high five!" Puzzled, he imitates the gesture and she slaps his hand.

He stares at his palm. "Since when did slapping one another become a celebratory gesture?" Then he shrugs. "Never mind. Tamara is gone. High five back at you, Ms. Swan!"

"Now, what about Henry?" Snow insists.

"We followed Fulk into a tunnel. He was carrying a bowl of water, so we thought it might be for a prisoner—and it was!" Hook kneels and sketches a hasty map in the dirt. "Here's the tunnel. Guarded, of course, by two other of Pan's henchmen. But we dimmed our lights and they didn't notice us, so we were able to sneak in. Henry was sitting on a floor mat, looking roughed up but undamaged. One of his ankles was chained to the wall and his hands were tied behind him. And you know that cuff that Tamara and Greg had, that dampens magic? They'd put one on Henry."

"Why?" Snow gasps.

Rumple speaks up. "Because, Your Majesty, he's a born sorcerer."

"What? He's never shown any indications of having any kind of magic."

"It's latent, but it's there. We'll likely see the first signs shortly after his voice begins to crack." Out of long habit, Rumple's hands try to fold over the top of his cane, but when he remembers he has no cane any more, he lets them fall to his sides. "There is a prophesy you should be aware of, one that may explain Pan's motive. Henry, it seems, will inherit the best from all of us: his grandfather's battle skills, his grandmother's capacity for understanding the human heart, his father's bravery, my magic, and like his mother, he will be a savior to his people—in fact, to all the people in all the magical realms. With his wisdom, kindness, strength and courage, he will unite them and lead them to freedom and peace."

"Holy crap," Emma gushes. "_My_ kid will do all that?"

"Our kid, Ms. Swan, for we all have taught him. In another two or three years, his powers will begin to exert themselves, but you've already seen his remarkable ability to bring enemies together for a common good." Rumple opens his palm and moves his hand in a collective gesture. "That makes him a threat to Pan."

"Why? Does Pan have some plan for world domination?" David asks.

"Only the continued domination of Neverland and the continuance of his own existence." Rumple thinks a moment about how to explain. "Perhaps you are aware that beyond our puny existence there are others, much older and more powerful than all the species in this world. Shortly after they created this world and began to bring life forth upon it, the Original Ones debated a long time about whether to create man and give him magic. Some of them said man needed magic to do good in the world: to heal the injured, cure the sick, feed the hungry. Others said magic would corrupt man, cause him to turn against his fellow man, and eventually he would lose his soul to anger and fear.

"The Original Ones argued for centuries, and it seemed neither side would win, and therefore man would never be created. They decided at last to put it to the test: some lands would have magic; others would not, and they would see how each fared. As part of the agreement, each side would, from time to time, choose a champion to place in direct competition."

"Yeah, just what I always figured," Emma grumbles. "The gods play chess with us poor mortals."

"And what happens when one side wins?" David asks.

"They reset the board and play again. But the time will come, though no one knows when, that the last game is played, with the two most powerful champions of all; and if the White King wins, the Original Ones will know that man is good, and all the lands will be gifted with magic. But if the Black King wins, the Original Ones will know that man is evil, and magic will be banished from the earth."

"Lovely story, Gold," Emma says. "But what's this got to do with Henry?"

"Clochette?" He glances at his shoulder, where a light suddenly appears, and within it Clochette. This causes quite a stir among Sabina's squad, who all curtsey and flick their own lights on and off in a display of respect.

"Your Majesties," Rumple addresses the Charmings more formally, and then he glares at Hook, "and pirate, may I present Acting Queen Clochette-Belle. Clochette, this is Queen Snow White of the Enchanted Forest, her consort David, their daughter Emma."

Greetings are exchanged, but Hook complains, "Hey, what about me?"

"Apologies. Clochette, this is"—Rumple stumbles; he hates to risk conflict by revealing to Sabina the little white lies he told last night, but he can't bring himself to fib to Clochette, especially now: it would feel too much like lying to Belle. So he snaps his fingers and releases the glamour on the pirate's hand, returning the hook to its rightful place.

"Thanks, mate," Hook mutters. "I think."

"Hook!" Clochette exclaims.

Rumple reddens as he addresses Sabina. "Princess, I owe you an apology. I didn't exactly lie to you; his true name _is_ Killian Jones; but if I had given you the name he's known for, I expect we wouldn't be standing here now."

Sabina smiles crookedly. "Perhaps not. Hook has been a menace to us almost as much as he is to Pan."

"And, uh, I wasn't completely forthcoming about myself either. My true name is Rumplestiltskin."

The pixies begin to murmur among themselves, but Clochette interrupts, "A trusted friend of many years and my former mentor" and that puts an end to all objections. "Now as to your question, Princess Emma." She speaks in hesitant English, drawing on Belle's memory. "In this century, the playing board is here, in Neverland."

"You're saying what? That maybe Henry's the White King and Pan's the Black one?" David asks.

Rumple and Clochette both shrug. "We only know that Henry is prophesied to become a very powerful and good king, and Pan's as black-hearted as they come."

_Neverland, Three Hundred One Years After Rumple Became the Dark One_

"This is as far as I go." Jefferson's eyes dart in every direction and his hand slips into his jacket pocket, where he carries a knife; Rumple knows a second knife is hidden in his boot. "I hate Neverland," the portal jumper mutters as he sits on a fallen log and gathers his jacket close about him.

"I thought it was Wonderland you hated. Would you like a campfire?" Rumple offers.

"No, just get going. You've got 'til noon tomorrow and then I'm—" he cuts off his sentence because they both know he can't leave without Rumple, and Rumple must succeed in his mission before they can pass back through the portal. Three have come through; three must go back.

Clochette scoops up a pebble from the shore, clutches it tight, and when she opens her hand again a little lamp has replaced the pebble. It's glowing, but with magic, not flaming oil. She presents it to Jefferson. "If any of my tribe come, show them this. Then they'll know you're under my protection."

Jefferson slips the lamp into his pocket. "All right. Thanks." He studies the horizon, where a grove of trees is vanishing and a mountain is appearing. "I don't know how you're going to keep from getting lost here."

"This is a place to trust the nose, not the eyes," Rumple says. To illustrate, he fills his lungs with air, then points to the northwest. "A campfire, meat roasting."

Clochette sniffs too. "Yes, but that's the Red Indian camp. The Lost Boys' home is that way." She points southwest.

"We'll be back soon." Rumple casts an invisibility spell over Jefferson, then follows as the pixie leads the way.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

_Neverland, Present Day_

As Team Emma strategizes its next move, their deliberations are interrupted by a commotion among the pixies. "Rumplestiltskin! Rumplestiltskin!" Clochette shouts; too excited by the sudden arrival of the pixie Tanji, she slips into Pixish. "We've found your Regina!"

He makes a mouth. "Not _my_ Regina, dearie, but go on."

Clochette grasps at English again. "About a half-hour ago, Tanji saw her wander off and followed her. Or at least, Regina pretended to be wandering. As soon as she was out of sight of your friends, she started moving rapidly, as if she knew where she was going, apparently intending to find Henry alone."

Emma rolls her eyes. "How stupid can we get here, people? Isn't it obvious we need to stick together? No one-woman"—she glares at Rumple—"or one-man rescue parties here, okay? Where were you, by the way?"

"Gathering information," he snaps back. "Believe me, Sheriff, I have no Lone Ranger fantasies. In fact, from the information I gathered, I have a rescue plan to offer that requires a posse."

"So now you're a cowboy," David mutters. "Sorry we don't have a white hat for you."

Snow slugs him in the arm before returning her attention to Clochette. "Where is Regina now?"

"She was captured."

The Charmings all talk over one another, David concerned that now Pan was alerted to an impending attack; Emma frustrated with Regina's selfish carelessness; and Snow puzzling as to how a sorceress with Regina's abilities could be captured.

"It's as I've been telling you all along: Pan is one big, bad dude," Hook reminds them. "He has magic, maybe not as much as Her Majesty or the crocodile, but he has the home court advantage, doesn't he? And the way you people constantly underestimate him, just because you think he's a kid leading other kids, you're playing right into his hands."

"You sure have picked up our world's slang," Emma observes. "Put you in jeans and a t-shirt and you'd fit right into Storybrooke."

"Thank you, Princess." He bows. "Three days of nonstop television made me an expert on everything from the wide world of sports to ring around the collar."

Snow sets her fingers between her lips and whistles shrilly. "Hold it, hold it! We need to figure out what to do about Regina."

"Leave her," David brushes all other answers aside. "Whatever she's got herself into, she deserves it."

"Wait a minute, Dad. She's one-third of our magic team. We kinda need her," Emma points out.

"Not to mention the fact that we're heroes," Snow says. "Leaving people behind—even Regina—is not what we do."

"Perhaps we ought to consider first how she was captured," Rumple suggests.

"And what Pan's doing with her," Snow adds. "If she's in danger—"

Clochette interjects, "Squid ink."

"Huh?" David blinks, but Snow, Emma and Rumple all nod their heads. "Of course, squid ink. That's how you capture a sorceress: paralyze her with squid ink."

"Which implies that one or more of the mermaids are in league with Pan, since only they or I have the ability to obtain that particular commodity," Rumple explains. "Although, if the mermaids are cooperating with him, it may not be willingly."

"Okay," Emma jumps in, leaving room for further debate. "So what's Pan done with Regina?"

"Unharmed, though under guard, of course," Clochette answers. "She's being held in a cave in the Hideout." She nods to Tanji. "Our scout can give you the picture."

Tanji sprinkles fairy dust on a flat boulder and it becomes a monitor of sorts, showing the Evil Queen deep in a cave that Rumple recognizes. She's bound to a chair by heavy ropes and one of the Home Office's Handy Dandy Magic Dampener cuffs has been strapped to her wrist. Outside the cave, Nibs marches to and fro, guarding the entrance with his barbeque swabbing stick on his shoulder.

At Regina's feet, and apparently much to her consternation, Twin One and Twin Two sit cross-legged—and bouncing at her side, begging to be allowed onto her lap, is Tootles. "Tell us a story, Mother!" "Will you tuck us in tonight, Mother?" "I wanna get in your lap!" "Stay with us forever, Mother!"

Regina speaks uncharacteristically softly. "Mother? You think I'm your. . .mother?"

"You could be," Twin One says, and his brother adds, "You look like a mother. All soft and round and cuddlesome."

The Charmings snort in unison.

"Will you be our mother, please please please? Tell us stories and tuck us in and fix our ouchies and kiss us here." One of the twins points to his forehead. "I ain't been kissed in ever so long!"

Tootles bounces even faster. "I wanna kiss too! Kiss me!" No longer waiting for permission, he clambers into Regina's lap, plants his sticky little hands on her cheeks and kisses her forehead. "There! Now you're our mother forever and ever." He settles his head against her bosom and sighs. "You're the bestest mother ever."

Regina's blood-red lips turn up just a little. "Really? The bestest?"

"Stay with us, pretty please with honey on top."

"Really? You want me to stay? _Me_?" A tear courses down her now-sticky cheek.

"Aw crap," Emma gripes. "A fine time for her to figure out she's got a heart."

"At least she's got something to keep her out of trouble for now," Snow surmises. "Let's get back to our plans."

_Neverland, Three Hundred One Years After Rumple Became the Dark One_

Clochette holds up a staying hand and drops down to Rumple's shoulder to whisper in his ear. "It's less than a quarter-mile now." She sniffs the wind. "Three are in the camp: Nibs, Tootles and Slightly. Pan is off to the north, alone. The others are out gathering fruit."

"Do you smell Bae?"

She tries twice, but shakes her head. "There's a stale scent. Fading. Rumple, I'm sorry. I think he's left the island." Her light flickers and dims.

"Maybe he's with the Indians, or out on the water. Let's go into camp; the Lost Boys will know where he's gone." The wizard doesn't disguise the disappointment in his voice.

"Remember, they're not used to outsiders, and they most certainly won't trust an adult. If they remember adults at all, it's with anger and fear."

"Anger and fear are coping mechanisms," he says. "Beneath them are longing and need, and beneath longing and need is hope." He waves a hand and a large bag filled with bulky items appears at his feet. "All of us, no matter how grown up or powerful, are damaged children inside, wishing to be protected and loved." He snaps his fingers and a gold cloud of smoke engulfs him; when it clears, the proud wizard in leather has transformed into a shaggy-haired twelve-year-old boy in homespun.

"This is what you looked like when you were small?" Clochette smiles.

"Aye." Even his voice has changed. He stares down at the dirt for a long moment, and his expression changes from confident and determined to shy and insecure.

"What are you doing, Rumple?"

"I can't look like I know what I'm up to." His mouth quirks into a smile. "It helps that I don't." He throws the bag over his shoulder and she leads him into the camp.

Dense foliage hides a collection of tunnels connecting caves and hiding spaces beneath the roots of redwoods. In the hiding spaces and the caves, Rumple can see signs of occupation: bits of clothing fashioned from undying leaves, dishes made from bark and shells and pounded tin, and furniture made from stone and wood. The signs indicate that the camp is very old.

Rumple and Clochette hang back on the edge of the camp, assessing: in the center of the clearing, a hearty campfire roars; a pig hangs off a spit over the fire, and the smallest of the three boys is dabbing a sauce on the pig, using a rag attached to a branch. The pig is nearly ready to eat, and Rumple's stomach growls. Two other boys are working at a makeshift table, a plank of wood set across two boulders.

Clochette indicates the pig tender, who is dressed in skunk skins: "That's Tootles." She points to the vegetable peeler, who's in rabbit skins: "That's Nibs."

She hovers at Rumple's eye level. "You won't forget your promise, will you, Dark One?"

He lays a hand over his heart. "I swear. I'll hurt no one unless I have no choice."

Satisfied, she then points to the fox skin-outfitted tallest of the three, who's slicing bread: "And that's Slightly."

He reaches out to her, but even though he's a foot shorter and 70 pounds lighter than he was a minute ago, he's still too large to touch her, so he drops his hand. "Clochette, I would do nothing to endanger you or the other pixies, or to upset your tribe's relationship with the Lost Boys. You are connected somehow to Belle, and that makes you family to me."

The mature sentiments sound bizarre coming from a scrawny, all-elbows-and-knees kid, but Clochette sees him as he really is, not as the glamour. "I shall introduce you to the Lost Boys now."

Boldly they proceed into the clearing, Clochette calling out in Pixish.

"Tink! You're home!" Tootles casts the barbeque brush aside and runs forward, his arms outstretched; he wants a hug so badly that Rumple briefly considers taking him home. But three came through the hat; only three can return, and that third one will be Bae.

"My name is Clochette. Gentlemen," Clochette announces, "may I introduce a fellow adventurer, Ailwin, from the Enchanted Forest."

"Hi," Rumple ducks his head, hiding his face beneath his hair.

The boys stare at him, openly curious, and Slightly is openly suspicious. As the leader in Pan's absence, he takes seriously his responsibility to protect his charges; he folds his arms and walks directly up to the newcomer, squaring his body. "This is our island."

Rumple runs a nervous hand through his flyaway hair. "Uhm, okay," he mumbles. "I'm just, you know. . . .I was in the water, and the fairy—"

"Pixie," Clochette corrects.

"She helped me, and then we were in the forest." He looks behind him, then frowns. "Well, there _was_ a forest there."

"That's all right," Slightly chuckles. "This is a shifting island. It keeps changing."

"Huh." Rumple appears skeptical.

"Except our hideout," Nibs says proudly. "It don't change. That's 'cause the pixies magicked it for us."

"Oh." Rumple shifts his feet and casts longing glances at the roast pig.

Slightly catches on. "You hungry, Ailwin?"

He nods reluctantly, then indicates his bag. "I can pay. I brought some stuff with me when I—left home."

"Did you run away?" Nibs stares up at the stranger with admiration.

"From your home?" Tootles adds. "Did you have a family and you ranned away?"

Rumple nods and stuffs his hands in his pockets.

"Did you have a papa? And a _mama_?" Tootles pronounces the latter word with reverence.

Rumple shakes his head. "No mama."

Tootles' face falls. "Oh."

"Get him some food," Slightly orders the smallest boy, who scampers off.

"Shouldn't we wait for Peter?" Nibs asks.

"I'm the boss right now, and I say he eats." Slightly nods at the bag. "So, whatcha got?"

Rumple opens the bag and takes a few objects out. "Well, I got a pennywhistle; it's kind of banged up, but it works." He demonstrates. "And this tin soldier. His right arm's rusted but his left arm moves. And, uh, a sword that I made myself, and a shield. See? I painted it too."

"What's that?" Slightly runs his hand over the crest in the center of the shield.

"Oh, that's a crocodile."

"What's he doing? Looks like he's standing up."

"He is. Like he's fighting a guy, you know?"

Nibs breaks in. "You got crocodiles where you comed from? We got crocodiles, out at the lagoon."

"We've got one crocodile," Slightly corrects. "He don't bother us though. He's scared of Peter—that's our leader. He's out hunting right now but he'll be back for lunch. He'll decide if you can stay with us or not."

"I hope you stay," Nibs says, eyeing the bag. "What else you got?"

Rumple and Nibs kneel, sorting through more toys and a few clothes, until Tootles returns with a plate piled high with vegetables and pork. Rumple runs his tongue over his lips but doesn't reach for the plate. "So—how about this book? It's got dragons and stuff."

"We can't read," Slightly dismisses the offer.

"But it's got color pictures," Nibs protests. "Lookit, Slightly. A flyin' dragon. And lookit this guy's armor." He holds up the book. "Why not? We got plenty of food."

"Yeah, but I'll take the whistle too. Pan will like it, to go with his pipes." Slightly takes the agreed upon treasure and grants permission for Rumple to take the plate.

Rumple stuffs a handful of pork into his mouth. Something shifts in Slightly's expression and he orders Tootles to fill a cup with cider, then he jerks a thumb towards the makeshift table. "Here, you can sit down at our table. You can stay 'til Peter gets back. Clochette, you want to eat with us?"

As the pixie follows Rumple and Slightly to the table, Nibs slings the bag of toys over his shoulder and half-drags it into the 'kitchen.' Tootles patters along behind the bigger boys. "Hey, uhm, Ailwin? Tell us about your home. Wait a minute." He brings a chair to the table for Rumple to sit on, then fetches another for Slightly, and Nibs fills a plate for boss boy.

Around a mouthful of potato, Rumple replies, "Not much to tell."

"Well, what was your house like?"

Rumple frowns. "It was in a town called Loameth. It was small. I. . .don't remember any more."

"That's what it's like here," Nibs says. "You forget things. You forget where you came from, your family." His mouth puckers and he stares hard at the table, blinking furiously, but a tear manages to escape.

For the second time Rumple contemplates breaking his promise, but he glances at Clochette and shakes his head. "This is good." He stuffs more pork into his mouth.

_Neverland, Present Time_

Clochette settles on the flat boulder, her hands folded demurely. "Before we attack—"

Every pixie in Princess Sabina's squad raises a fist into the air and shouts: "Attack!"

"Huh!" Emma grunts. "Two hundred thousand words in the English language, and that's the one they chose to learn."

"No, no, no." Clochette waves at her subjects. "No _attack_. No _attack_, no _kill_, no _maim_ or _slaughter_."

As one, the pixies groan, "Awww."

Clochette clicks her tongue. "Oh, all right, you can pimp-slap Pan and his minions. Are you happy now?"

The pixies raise their fists again and chat, "Pimp-slap, pimp-slap, pimp-slap!"

Shaking her head in disappointment, Clochette turns her attention back to the humans. "As I was saying, before we—" she spells the word out—"a-t-t-a-c-k, we need to show you what's at stake for us." She sprinkles some dust onto the boulder and the image that is produced is of a child-size castle on top of a mountain. The castle is protected by a curtain of magic so thick that even the non-magical humans can see it. Clochette taps the boulder and the image zooms in; the humans now see a closet that's locked shut with seven deadbolts.

"In that closet," Clochette says, "locked in a bird cage, is our queen, Reine."

"Ohhh," Snow says. "I'm so sorry. How long has he imprisoned her?"

"Nineteen years."

One of the pixies flies up to Emma and shouts something in Pixish. Hook translates, "She says, 'We're mad as hell and we're not gonna take it any more!' Or the Pixie equivalent."

Emma folds her arms. "No more television for you, Hook. You've become a quote-aholic."

"Where's that mountain and how do we get past that magic?" David's inner knight is ready for action.

"You can't. Pan must be defeated first. Then his magic will dry up and blow away, and we can release our queen."

"And we can release our White King," Snow adds.

"And the Black Queen," Hook adds.

David's chomping at the bit. "I could go for some big-time pimp-slapping. So let's mount up!"

"To defeat Pan, we must conduct two battles simultaneously." Clochette clasps her hands behind her back and paces. "We must give him what he expects, and while that's going on, the_ real_ battle, the one that will change everything, will be taking place behind the scenes. By prophesy, that battle will be fought by the Bearer of Light, alone but not alone."

"What the hell does that mean?" Hook grunts.

She shrugs. "The Bearer of Light will know, when the time comes."

"'Bearer of Light' sounds a lot like 'savior' to me," David decides. "You're up, Emma."

"Fine." Emma reaches into the back of her jeans and withdraws a Glock. She checks its load, then, satisfied, replaces it. "Let's go, Queen."

Clochette lifts a staying hand. "No, Sheriff Princess, your leadership is required in creating the distraction."

"So who's this 'Bearer of Light' then?"

"Him."

All heads turn in the direction Clochette is pointing. "Aw, _hell_ no!" David exclaims.

"This makes no sense; it's a complete oxymoron!" Snow blurts. "How can the 'Bearer of Light' be the Dark One?"

With a watery smile, Rumplestiltskin suggests, "The Fates are well known for their twisted sense of humor."

"Crap on a cracker," Emma mumbles. "Well, Gold, whatever they got you doin', do it good, huh? Remember it's for our sons." She addresses her parents and Hook. "Come on, then, let's kick some Pan ass."


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

_Neverland, Three Hundred One Years After Rumple Became the Dark One_

The three Lost Boys and their guests are lounging by the fire, picking their teeth and laughing as Rumple reads to them from the dragon book. Nibs has some definite ideas about the psychology and physiology of dragons, so he keeps criticizing the author; none of his claims are accurate, however, so Rumple doubts if Nibs' ideas are based on actual observation. The father instinct nudges Rumple to make this a teaching moment, but he's supposed to be twelve, so he ignores the instinct—and the urge to take Tootles onto his lap and give him the hug the boy needs more than air and water.

"Are there others, or is Peter the only other guy?" Rumple asks.

"We got others. They'll be back when the sun sets," Slightly says. His tough-guy act has slipped a little; Rumple senses the beginning of trust between them. He reads another story and they laugh some more. They're so relaxed now, their bellies full and their bodies warmed by the afternoon sun, that they're about to doze off. It's time now, Rumple realizes, for the information exploration.

He begins by asking about each of the missing members of this motley tribe, and Nibs and Tootles describe them. He focuses most of his questions on Peter, which is to be expected, since Peter will decide Rumple's fate with the Lost Boys, but then he swings the conversation around. "So that's six of you. Anybody else? No girls?"

"Girls don't come here," Tootles squeaks. "We don't want 'em."

"There was one here once, but she didn't stay," Slightly recalls. "Wendy."

"She was our mother." Tootles swallows hard. "It was nice, but then she had to go back."

To change the subject, Slightly says, "There was another kid; he left just two weeks ago. He stayed a long time. The pirates took him and Peter tried to get him back. He had a big fight with Hook, but—" Slightly shrugs.

"He was nice too," Tootles adds. "He showed me how to make a fishin' stick. Wanna see?" Before Rumple can respond, Tootles trots off to one of the caves.

"So he's with the pirates now, this other boy?"

"Peter went back to look for him, but the ship was gone. A big hole opened in the sea and the ship fell into it. It didn't come back."

"Maybe Bae got away," Nibs says. "Maybe he fell over and the mermaids got him. Maybe he drowded."

Rumple shudders involuntarily. He reaches out with his magic, searching for a scent or a sign, but he finds none. If Bae were dead, there would be a trace of him in the wind, in the water, in the land. Rumple has seen enough of death to know that the earth remembers long after people have forgotten.

But wherever Bae is now, he's with pirates, and—Rumple forbids himself to finish the thought. Bae is brave and resourceful; he will survive.

Tootles returns with a smooth pole; a nearly invisible line with a tiny silver hook is attached to one end. "See?" He's proud as a peacock. "I made it. Bae showed me."

Rumple touches the hook and his magic informs him it's true: Baelfire strung this pole. Baelfire was here, just two weeks ago. This is the closest Rumple has been to his son in three centuries: his throat aches with longing. "Did he have any toys or anything he left behind?"

"Yeah, he left all his stuff."

"Can I see?"

Slightly shrugs his permission, and Tootles leads Rumple to one of the caves. Past the sleeping mats and the piles of dirty clothes and handmade toys, Tootles shows him a wooden box. "We put his stuff here, in case he comes back."

Rumple kneels and sorts through, his hands shaking. With everything he touches, the magic sends him all sorts of valuable information: Bae was healthy, Bae had had enough to eat, Bae had slept, though fitfully, Bae had cut his arm but it had healed without infection. But, the magic agrees, Bae hadn't been here in two weeks. Rumple finds no writings, no maps, no drawings, nothing that indicates where Bae has gone.

Rumple wishes to hold the clothes to his nose and breathe in Bae's scent, but Tootles is watching. With a little sleight of hand, Rumple slips a sock from the pile into his pocket. It's just a dirty, holey sock but it was Bae's.

A rooster's crow echoes off the mountains that appeared just moments ago beyond the clearing. Nibs scrambles to his feet. "Peter! Come on, Toot!" The pair run off in different directions, and soon a chair and a plate of food are waiting for the Prince of Neverland.

He arrives in grand style, flying in and crowing, his magic radiating; he lands on top of the table and stands with his hands on his hips, staring down his nose at the newcomer. "Who are you? Hi, Tink. Welcome back."

Three mere mortals trudge into the camp and position themselves behind Pan. The tallest wears a hooded jacket that, along with his shaggy blond bangs, hides his eyes. He's smiling as though the world is his, compliments of his leader, of course. The middle boy also wears a hood. He swipes a slice of pork from Nibs' plate and eats it, standing with his back half-turned. The third boy is a blue-eyed red-head whose hood hangs down his back. He doesn't really look at anyone.

"My name is Clochette," the pixie corrects. "Hi, Peter."

"This is Ailwin," Slightly says. "He was lost. I said he could stay 'til you got here."

Peter leans forward to stare at the newcomer. "Ailwin, huh?" Having completed his assessment, he struts up and down the table, his boots nimbly dancing around the plates of food. "We'll see, if he follows the rules. Did you tell him the rules yet?" Slightly shakes his head and Peter continues, "First rule: I'm the boss. You do what I say. You don't and—tell 'im, Felix."

The boy with the hooded jacket and hooded eyes grabs Rumple by the collars to sneer in his face. "R-r-r-rip. Your shadow, he's gonna rip it off, slow, so that it hurts real bad. You know what happens then, when your shadow's gone?"

Rumple shakes his head.

Felix shoves Rumple backwards and the latter falls. "You're nothin'. You're like a skin after a snake shed it." Felix reaches backward, grabbing the red-haired boy by the shoulder and thrusting him forward for Rumple's inspection. "Like this. He used to be Bertrand. Now he's nothin', so he don't have a name."

Looking into the redhead's empty eyes, Rumple can believe it. The kid's lack of expression reminds him of the victims of heart theft—the emotionless creatures that are left when a sorcerer has removed a heart. But as Felix pushes Bertrand's face toward Rumple's, Rumple sniffs—and detects no odor. No scent at all. Not the milky smell of a child or the flop-sweat smell of a teenage boy, not the brimstone odor of demons, not even the stench of the dying. Rumple draws back, stunned. He's never encountered this before, though he read about it in some book in the Dark Castle library. He'd read the page, then he'd thrown the book across the room—in disbelief, he'd told himself then, but the truth was, he'd been horrified. Not much could shock the Dark One, but that page did.

A lack of a scent is one of the indicators of the absence of a soul.

One whose heart has been removed by a sorcerer can still walk and talk and think, can live a life, though an empty one; but one whose soul has been removed. . . .According to the book, that victim is neither alive nor dead.

All the evil committed by all the Dark Ones throughout time can't compete with the evil that lies within the sorcerer who would take a soul.

"This is what He can do. This is what He will do to those who disobey him. Do you get it, Ailwin?"

Rumple nods, avoiding eye contact, but he manages a furtive glance. Boys can lie like rugs when they boast, but Felix isn't exaggerating, the magic tells Rumple. Magic is blaring every alarm it can reach. Rumple's skin crawls—and beneath Peter's creepiness, there's something that makes Rumple's heart pound. He can't place it—something in the boy's voice, an accent that sounds faintly of Loameth, but long ago.

But stronger than the accent, stronger by far than any threat Felix can utter or Bertrand can represent, is the scent rippling off Pan: brimstone, the odor of a dark magic; and ash, the odor of a demon. Pan is the real deal. However he came by his powers, he must have dealt directly with the Original Evil, and his magic came to him undiluted.

"Second rule: Nobody owns anything but me. Everything belongs to everyone, except what's mine. Got that?"

Rumple nods, and Slightly pipes up, "He already shared." He points to the now-empty bag and the toys strewn across the ground.

"Good. Third rule: Everybody works. What can you do?"

"My papa was a spinner. I can do that."

"What's a spinner?"

"Makes clothes."

"That's a good thing. How long are you thinking of staying?"

Rumple shrugs and Peter grins nastily. "Well, here's news for you: nobody can leave Neverland."

Rumple has news for him: he'll be leaving with Jefferson tomorrow at noon, and since he can't take Bae, he'll take one of the Lost Boys. But of course Pan will have to find that out the hard way. A nerve in Rumple's cheek tweaks and he throws a quick glance at Clochette. She nods slightly; she won't abandon him.

_Neverland, Present Day_

"Before you encounter Pan, you need to know how he works." Clochette is still pacing across her boulder. "His powers aren't as many and varied as Rumplestiltskin's, nor as blatant as Regina's, nor as pure as Emma's, but they are entirely capable of controlling this island and everyone on it, and he can defeat every one of you. Allow me to demonstrate." She sprinkles more dust on the boulder and a new vision appears upon it. Team Emma gathers back around for a close look.

They see an apple orchard and floating from tree to tree, little lights that they have come to recognize as pixies. "Spring, nineteen years ago. We were gathering apple blossoms; we make wine from them." The image focuses in on one exceptionally bright light, which resolves itself into an auburn haired, crown-wearing pixie who's sniffing a blossom. "Reine, our queen."

Suddenly a patch of darkness falls across the branch upon which Reine stands and she looks up with a gasp. Her light intensifies and her wings flap in preparation for flight, but horror takes control of her face and she freezes, staring into the darkness. The image on the rock flutters and changes: now Team Emma is shown an auburn-haired pixie-child playing in a pile of autumn leaves.

Clochette explains, "Pan has pulled this memory from her. He's forcing her to relive it."

There is a warning shriek from above and before the pixie-child can run, a black blur dives at her and talons dig into her shoulders. Imprisoned, she is taken into the sky, her captor streaking into the sky like a bolt of lighting returning to the clouds. The pixie-child cries but collects herself: she grabs one of the talons and sends an electrical shock into it. Her captor screams and the talons open, releasing her. She plummets, her legs pumping, falling faster and faster.

The image on the rock flutters and changes once more, returning now to the adult pixie queen standing frozen on the branch. The dark shape hovering over her grows darker and engulfs her, yet she doesn't move, and then complete darkness falls. When the darkness passes and light pours in again, the pixie has vanished.

"And that's how he took her. So easy for him. He reaches into your mind, sorts through your memories and your nightmares and your fantasies, and as he forces you to relive them, he gains control of you. If he chooses, he can drive you to madness, to suicide."

"A block," Emma suggests. "There must be a block of some sort to keep him out of your head. A shield, a cloak, I dunno." She spins on Rumple. "Gold?"

Rumplestiltskin shakes his head, lost in his own thoughts.

"He was granted this power by the Original Dark One. It has a strength and purity of evil that's unmatched. How can a person protect himself against himself?"

"For some of us, we are our own worst enemy," Hook mutters. "It's a beautiful weapon."

"Yeah," Emma says slowly, "but not for all of us. Some of us have less material-less guilt and less fear-for him to work with." She glances at her father and smiles.

He frowns. "What are you thinking, Emma?"

Snow catches on. "She's right. Your heart is cleaner than anyone else's, including mine."

"Ah, the benefits of a simple mind," Hook comments.

"What if, instead of seeing us, Pan saw only David?" Emma muses. "Everywhere he looks, another clean-hearted David. Uncorruptible."

"I'm hardly as innocent as that," David mumbles, casting his eyes downward. "I have my own crimes and regrets."

"Not anywhere as many as the rest of us," Snow says softly. "You haven't murdered."

"Even if it just bought us some time," Emma persists. "It would be worth trying."

Hook plays with his beard. "Let me understand this. You're suggesting a transformation?" With his hook he gestures to his body. "You want me to give up this for—" He now gestures to David and wrinkles his nose as though a foul odor has suddenly filled his nostrils. "That?"

"Hey," David growls.

"You should be so lucky," Snow blurts. "My husband has an incredible physique and classically handsome features."

David and Emma both blush, Emma adding, "Uhm, Mom, don't go all mushy in public, okay? You're embarrassing me."

"Sorry, darling."

Emma changes the subject quickly. "So, Clochette, can you do it? Give us all a—a David makeover? Just for a couple of hours while we storm the enemy camp."

"A glamour?" Clochette shrugs. "As you humans say, it's a piece of pie."

"Cake," David corrects. "Piece of cake. Which reminds me, it's nearly lunchtime."

Hook shrugs and smiles at Emma. "Perhaps you're right, my blonde beauty. Not so much there for Pan to work with."

Clochette hands over to Sabina the task of casting the glamours on Hook, Emma and Snow. Rumple is standing aside; Clochette flies to his shoulder and he walks away from the crowd so he can speak with her in private.

"This won't fool Pan," Rumple warns.

"No, of course not, but the goal is for them to distract the Lost Boys and Pan's lieutenants, keep them preoccupied—and safe from the real battle." Clochette squirms as she searches for a comfortable seat on Rumple's shoulder. "You have bony shoulders." She finally relocates to the span of muscle between his collarbone and his neck.

He pulls a mouth. "Would I be correct in assuming your intention is for me to fight Pan?"

"It is."

"I can't."

"Yes you can. Your magic is as powerful as his, and you have a wider arsenal than he does." Clochette leans back, making a pillow of his earlobe. "More importantly, your motive places you on the side of right, for a change. And most importantly, prophesy is on your side. The Bearer of Light will defeat the Evil Prince of Neverland."

Rumplestiltskin snorts. "You might've pulled the wool over the Charming clan's eyes, but I'm an old wool spinner, dearie. Where did you come up with this 'Bearer of Light' crap, anyway?"

"Might as well believe it now, Rumplestiltskin. It'll save some time later."

"Nothing 'light' about me, my girl. I'm the Dark One, the Snail Crusher, the Baby Stealer, Cruelty's Poster Boy. I've been evil since the day I was born."

"Now who's talking crap? But never mind. For someone who places so much stock in names, you aren't paying attention to your label. '_Bearer_ of Light.' It's about what you're bringing to the table when the game starts. No one on earth or in heaven has fought as long or as earnestly for the sake of love."

"Regardless, I can't fight Pan."

"You're right to assume that to defeat him you'll have to kill him."

"You're not listening. I can't fight Pan."

"You will, and you'll kill him. Only you can. The Fates have decreed it."

"Shouldn't 'the Bearer of Light' not go around killing people?"

"Pan isn't a person. He's a demon."

Rumple spins his head around to snap at the pixie, "He's my brother!"

"That's why you have to kill him."

The intensity of their conversation is broken by laughter from the camp, where both pixies and humans are giggling over the results of the makeover. Where, a moment ago, a tall blonde in a red jacket, a pirate in black and a sweet-faced brunette in a fur vest stood, there are now identical Prince Charmings. They even laugh the same.

The original folds his arms and admires his copies. "Well! The perfect army."

"How strange," David/Snow remarks. "For the first time, I actually feel attracted to you, Hook. But don't get ideas. I can still tell you from David: you smell like dead fish."

"If you should become confused and wander into my arms," Hook smirks, "as you Americans say, 'No harm, no foul.'"

Emma squirms in her new body. "It itches! So now I know why guys are always scratching themselves." She reaches for her Glock and sighs in relief to find it's still in her waistband. "So, Gold, you joining us or what?"

"While you rescue Henry and Regina, and free the Lost Boys, Clochette and I will take a meeting with Pan." His face is impassive as he makes this statement, just as calmly as if he'd said "take tea with Pan."

Emma doesn't buy the act. "Look, if you're going after Pan, you're gonna need help. I think I should–"

"Thank you, Ms. Swan, but you have a child to rescue," Rumple says. "it has to be me. And I will have help." He tilts his head toward the pixie riding on his shoulder.

Emma ponders for a moment, then acquiesces. "All right then, but let me give you something before you go." She approaches, reaching out her hands, and he assumes she means to hug him, but instead she grasps his hands and closes her eyes. Her magic surges through her fingers, every bit of her power, and floods his veins, sending him into a momentary power overload, his body shaking, his teeth rattling, his eyes glowing gold. Minutes pass as Emma pours her magic into him; when she releases him at last, dark circles have appeared under her eyes and her voice is weak. "Do you have it all?"

He nods. "Why–"

"You'll make better use of it than I would have." Her voice is stronger now. "good luck, Gold. Remember, Henry needs both his grandpas." She removes her gun from her waistband. "Let's move, people. The sooner we get Henry back, the sooner we can get out of this body." She gestures forward with the gun; Sabina barks an order and the airborne pixies fall into a wing-shaped formation. Another bark and they start forward, followed on the ground by the army of Davids.

"And me?" Rumple asks Clochette.

"And _we_," she corrects, "have a trip to sea to make. You, me and Belle."


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

**A/N. Hey, I got a couple of small guesses right at last! I predicted in "Undone" that Bae has magic, and I predicted here that Emma would be the group leader. "Truest Believer" also went somewhere that I have been planning to take this story, which you'll see in the last chapter–though I had a quite different purpose in mind.**

* * *

_Neverland, Three Hundred One Years After Rumple Became the Dark One_

As Peter eats, licking the grease from his fingers, the Lost Boys congregate at his feet, literally. His head thrown back, his boots propped on the makeshift table, he regales them with stories from his morning adventures and they listen enraptured. How much of their attentiveness is genuine, Rumple can't be sure, for Peter leaves no room for uncertainty in his ownership of these children. Having drained the contents of his cup, he throws it at Nibs' face, then as the child scrambles to refill the cup, Pan throws a fireball at his butt. When Nibs yelps and drops the cup, the other boys laugh—but Rumple perceives that not one of them finds the prank amusing: Pan's lieutenants are incapable of true humor and the Lost Boys are too afraid.

Three went in the hat, three must go out, Rumple forces himself to remember. One, only one, of these captives can be freed.

Pan drinks, then makes a face. "I'm tired of fruit juice," he complains. "I want chocolate milk." He leaps upon the table and throws out his arms, and magic flashes from his fingertips. A boulder suddenly becomes a brown cow, and as the boys exclaim their amazement, Pan throws another cup at Nibs. "Fill it up."

"Huh?"

"Go on, milk her." Pan sets his hands on his hips. "Or are you afraid of cows?"

The other boys guffaw and taunt as, shamefaced, Nibs approaches the cow. When she swats her tail and turns her head to stare at him, he drops the cup in panic. Slightly scoops up the cup and pushes Nibs away. "I'll do it." As Nibs fades back, under the protective arm of Curly, Slightly squeezes and pulls on a teat and squirts the milk into the cup. When the cup has been filled, Slightly inspects the contents. "It's chocolate."

"Of course it is," Pan says. Rumple squirms: there's something kind of. . .Rumplestiltskinish in Pan's performance–for that's what it is, a show meant to impress and intimidate. Just the kind of act Rumplestiltskin puts on, with everyone except Belle.

With a snap of Pan's fingers the cow disappears. Still perched on the table, he accepts the cup and drains it without pausing for breath.

Pan's magic is weakening now; though he doesn't let it show, the scent of the magic is fading. Pan wipes his mouth on his sleeve, belches and announces he's going to take a nap, then he vanishes. It's hard work, being a showman. Rumple knows that better than anyone. He could almost sympathize with Pan, evil being to evil being, if not for the knowledge that Pan had kept Bae prisoner here.

Pan's lieutenants instantly relax, and they too wander off to take naps, as the Lost Boys tidy up the remains of the meal. Quietly, Rumple approaches them one by one, asking seemingly stray questions, picking up information about Bae's stay here, about the other residents of the island—

And about the one and only ship that ever comes to Neverland: the _Jolly Roger_.

Rumple drops the plate he's washing when Curly provides that name. For just a flicker of a second, Rumple reminds himself it's been two hundred years—surely the _Jolly Roger_ has gone through many a captain by now. But even before Curly speaks again, Rumple knows he's lying to himself: no one ages in Neverland.

"And the worst one of all is the captain." Curly is chattering away. "He's big as a mountain and mean as a jackal and they call him the Dark One of the Seven Seas, but we call him Hook."

Rumple struggles to regain his composure. He can't decide which he feels more strongly: hatred for the man who stole both his wife and his son, or fear for Bae's life. But it's clear now that the Fates have set up their own cosmic chess board with Rumple on one side and Hook on the other, and until one or both are dead, the game will continue.

Meanwhile, Rumple realizes, he's in the wrong place.

_Neverland, Present Day_

His stride in coming here was puposeful and resolute, but now that he stands at the shoreline (is it the same one, he wonders, where he and Jefferson landed, so many years ago, when they expected to find Bae?) he's visibly nervous. This is it; this is what it all comes down to, the next few minutes. Once again, he's come on a journey of hope with the intent to rescue a child of his own blood, but if Clochette is to be trusted, this time he will have to kill another of his own if he is to save the child.

But then again, Rumplestiltskin has never trusted pixies, so why start now? Especially this tribe, who need to be rid of Pan to be safe. . .who need revenge to move on. His eyes cold, Rumple studies the pixie on his shoulder.

"Is it me or is it yourself you don't believe, Rumplestiltskin?" Clochette asks.

"You have very good reasons for pushing me into fratricide, dearie. Were our circumstances reversed, I'd do the same to you." He stares into the sea, where his fate awaits.

"I know it's impossible to trust the word of someone who's trying to persuade you to kill your brother."

Rumple starts at the familiar voice; he spins aound to find Belle standing behind him. She looks tired and worried, but she also looks like his only lifeline. She's waiting for an invitation to touch him; his body, disengaging from his mind, gives it: he takes her into his arms. "How do I know it's you?" He murmurs even as he strokes her hair.

"And not a pixie trick?" she finishes his thought. "There's nothing I can say or do to ease your doubts, just as there was nothing Bae could have done that night to convince you to trust the portal. I could answer you with secrets only you and I share, but you'd say that Clochette knows everything Belle does, and while she and I are in this. . .exchange, that's true. But it's also true that at this moment I know everything Clochette knows, and the most important thing we know is that you and Henry and all the rest of our people–those of us in Storybrooke too–won't survive if you don't succeed, and to do that, you must kill Pan."

He shoves her away. "Now I know this is a trick. Belle would never tell me to kill anyone, least of all my own brother."

"You're right." Belle reaches for him but he shrugs her off. "I would beg you to see the good in him, just as you did Robin Hood–just as you did–don't deny it, Rumple–just as you saw good in yourself, and that was why you didn't beat Hook to death. I know this is hard to accept, but I'm asking you now to see that there is no good in Pan. You have to look with your heart, not your eyes, and you'll see Ascel does not exist in Pan. See with your heart, and you'll see neither your brother nor a child, nor anything else human in Pan, only a demon that must be destroyed." She grabs his arm; this time he permits it. "Because if you don't, he'll kill all of you, take every last bit of magic you and Henry and Emma and Regina possess, and be set free to cross the realms. Then only the Original Ones themselves would be able to stop him, and by ancient agreement, they won't. They will simply declare evil the winner, and they will walk away from mankind. Do you see, Rumple? It's because you refuse to stop loving him that you're the only one who can kill him."

"This is insane."

"Look with your heart." Belle turns his face so that he's forced to look at her. Deep in those blue eyes wherein he's always found his faith, he sees clarity, honesty and fidelity; he sees Belle. As it always is when one is up against the Fates, he perceives he's missing important pieces to the puzzle, and that's the difference between knowledge and faith. Not as the fatherless child or the town coward or the Dark One or the scourge of Storybrooke has he ever chosen faith over knowledge.

Until now. His heart tells him what his head will not: this is Belle standing before him, not a fabrication, and while she might perplex or confound him, Belle would never lie to him. "What will it take to kill him?"

Belle sighs in relief. "You'll know when the time comes."

"Stay with me?"

"Always."

He walks into the sea until the water pulls him under.

_Neverland, Three Hundred One Years After Rumple Became the Dark One_

Pan doesn't return for supper. Rumple believes this is another of his ploys: Pan, like Rumple, subscribes to the theory of "less is more"; the less time the showman spends with his audience, the greater the mystery. After filling their bellies around the campfire, the lieutenants wander off into what is now a desert on the edge of the camp. The Lost Boys then eat their fill. They beg the newcomer for stories, and Rumple provides a few, watching their faces grow long as his tales remind them of home and family. Then Slightly announces it's time for bed, and Rumple is assigned Bae's old sleeping mat. As the boys lie down and slip into slumber, Rumple waits, pretending to doze. There's a lump in his throat that he can't force down, because Bae's scent lingers in these blankets.

His journey has been a failure, but at least he has a piece of information to go on. He decides that as soon as he arrives home, he'll gather his gold and set out again. With his never-ending supply of riches, he will search port after port, ship after ship: pirates are so easy to bribe, soon enough he'll track down the Dark One of the Seven Seas. Perhaps he'll take Belle along, in disguise, to keep her safe from the scum that frequent the places he'll be searching. She can have the adventures she yearns for. . . and give him the fortitude he needs.

He waits a long time, until the breathing of the three other boys who share this cave has slowed and deepened. As he waits he makes a most difficult decision: should he take Tootles, the littlest, the one with the most need of parents? Should he take Slightly, the smartest, who may know where Pan's traps are set? Should he take Nibs, who seems the most in need of rescue from Pan? Or one of the other boys: Curly, the strongest; one of the twins—no, they need to stay together. With three hundred years of tough decisions under his belt, this one should be easy, but Rumple finds he can't make it.

He feels a small bump on his shoulder and a tiny pair of feet walk up to his ear. "Now," a soft voice whispers. He looks for her, but Clochette has turned her pixie-light off and he can't see her. As they had agreed, by her presence he knows that the lieutenants have all dozed off—she has cast a sleeping spell on them. She will lead him back to the shore.

He stares through the darkness, trying to make out her form. "Which one?" he whispers. He shouldn't talk—every unnecessary sound he makes is an invitation for disaster—but he can't make this terrible decision alone. She knows these boys; she can make a more informed choice than he can.

She understands what he's asking. She flies off his shoulder and flits from Lost Boy to Lost Boy; the beating of her wings gives his eyes something to focus on. She hovers the longest over Tootles, who sleeps between the twins. Awakening him without disturbing the others will be difficult.

Very slowly, his attention fixed on the three boys, Rumple brings himself to a sitting position, and when that doesn't awaken anyone, he eases to his feet. He is deliberating how to step over Twin Two when it occurs to him he needn't do things the hard way: he waves his hand in the air and his magic does the rest. In an instant he's standing outside the cave, a full-sized man again, the glamour deactivated, and the sleeping Tootles is in his arms. He makes another difficult decision then and casts a two-hour sleeping spell on the child, for if Tootles were to awaken, he might cry out.

Clochette lands on his shoulder and whispers in his ear, "Ready?" He nods and she transports the three of them to the beach.

It's a fine night for travel, Rumple muses: the half-moon reflects off the quiet sea and the water swishes rhythmically against the shoreline. "Jefferson?"

He hears a snort and feet scrambling, and he deactivates the invisibility spell. The realm jumper's voice is thick with sleep, but he sounds relieved and pleased. "You ready to go home, then?" Jefferson stumbles over and peers down at the bundle in Rumple's arms. "Is that him?" He's wide awake now, excited with Rumple's apparent victory. "Is that Baelfire?"

"No."

"Oh. Sorry—"

"Kidnappers as well as trespassers!"

Rumple and Jefferson look around frantically, trying to figure out where the voice has come from. It seems to leap about in the air above their heads: one second it's to the east; the next, the south. "Did you really think you could steal from me and just sneak off into the dark, Rumplestiltskin?"

Rumple whispers to the pixie on his shoulder, "Go, before he sees you!"

She whispers back, "But you—"

"Go!" And she vanishes.

There's a wild giggle—is Pan mocking Rumple, or is this Pan's natural laugh? "Surprised? Yes, of course I knew it was you! What do you take me for? I think you've been a mage too long, Rumple. You've grown soft and careless. Killing you will be no sport at all."

"This could go either of two ways, Pan." Rumple passes Tootles to Jefferson and positions himself in front of them. "I have no interest in disturbing your little kingdom here. I came for information and I got it, so I'm going home. So you can turn around, go back to your prisoners and tell them you protected them from an intruder, and that'll be the end of it. Or I can summon the powers of the Dark One and destroy you with a snap of my fingers, and Neverland will be mine. Need some time to decide, little boy?" As an incentive, Rumple releases sparks from his fingertips.

A tree limb appears in mid-air and smacks Rumple in the head. He teeters, but retains his feet and sends a bolt of lighting to demolish the limb. Ship chains with an anchor attached appear to wrap themselves around Rumple: he snaps them easily. "We could go back and forth like this all night," Rumple complains. "That is, if you have magic enough for it. I'm willing to wager you don't. I'm willing to wager you're the soft and careless one." Rumple reaches up into the sky with one hand and calls down a comet, ordering it to sit still in the heavens: its light turns the night into day, and now he can see Pan clearly as the boy floats about fifteen feet in the air.

"You're right; this will get us nowhere." A flaming sword appears in Pan's hand and with a mad grin he sweeps down from the sky to slash at his enemy's head. Rumple vanishes and reappears a yard away, a sword of water in his hand, and the real battle begins. Each time the swords clash, the water puts out the fire and Pan has to relight his sword; little by little, he's draining his magic while Rumple is using only the physical strength of his own arm. It's a war of attrition, if the battle continues this way. Rumple may be an old, old being, but with the Dark magic came a physical strength that surpasses that of any human man, so he stands a good chance of winning.

Until Pan suddenly steps back and lowers his sword. His features drop as he walks forward: Rumple could swear the boy is _sad_. As Rumple stares, Pan's features change not only in expression but also in physicality: his nose straightens and lengthens, his cheeks hollow and his jawline sharpens. His clothes change, becoming worn-thin breeches and a faded gray tunic. He reaches out a hand, palm open. "Rumplestiltskin?"

Rumple draws his sword in close to his chest. He stares, his mind working rapidly to process what his eyes are showing him. A lie, it has to be. A trick of a powerful mage who's spied on Rumple's memories.

"Don't you know me, brother?" Pan waits, but Rumple clamps his mouth shut. "I remember you. Have you been searching for me all these years? Have you come to rescue me?" His voice breaks, becomes pleading, and Rumple breaks too, tears forming. Still, Rumple stands back, keeping his sword between his body and Pan's.

Jefferson tries to interrupt. "Rum, what's going on?"

"You don't remember me." Pan sounds abandoned and afraid. "You were six when Papa sold me. I was fourteen. I was a tavern keeper's whipping boy until Peter Pan sent the Shadow for me. I was brought here to become the new Pan." He waits, his hand still reaching out. "Rumpie, can't you remember? Our Papa Jarin. Our Aunt Maerwynn." When Rumple doesn't answer, Pan reaches into his tunic and produces something that he thrusts toward Rumple, who takes it automatically. "You remember this, don't you?"

Rumple finally breaks eye contact with Pan to examine the object he's been given. It's a small, simple doll, handmade, of sticks and wool, something a child could have made; the only thing remarkable about it is the tiny blue jacket it's wearing. The lapels have been emblazoned with white lighting bolts.

"Lighting Man," Rumple says lowly. He thrusts the doll back at Pan and the latter tucks the doll away. "You stole it. You kidnapped Ascel just like you kidnapped Bae, and you stole this and stole his memories."

Pan insists, "I am Ascel. Wait, I know how to prove it. Look." He raises his tunic to expose his chest. Over his heart is a raised, blackened scar in the shape of a "J."

Rumple's fingers touch the scar, tracing it gently. Despite the Dark One's protests in the back of his brain, he now believes. "Papa did this. He came home drunk and dragged us out of bed and—he would've done this to me too except he passed out first."

"It got infected. I was sick for nearly a week. After he sobered up, he never mentioned it. Never explained why he did it. Never apologized."

"And Aunt Maerwynn never mentioned it either. She was afraid he'd finish the job on me."

"You know me then." Pan smiles in relief.

Rumple swallows hard. "Come back with me. I have a castle, money; you'll be comfortable." He nods toward Tootles, still sleeping soundly in Jefferson's arms. "We'll find a way to bring these back too. We—"

Pan suddenly throws his head back and crows. Rumple's mouth drops open and before he can gather his thoughts, Pan thrusts his sword deep into Rumple's belly. The thrust pushes him backwards; he stumbles into the sea and falls, the waves engulfing him. The sword hurts even worse as Pan yanks it out. "Ascel," Rumple groans as water fills his nose and mouth.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Jefferson laying Tootles on the sand.

Pan stands over Rumple even as the waves roll in and splash his knees. The sea pulls Rumple away; he thrashes, but hasn't the strength to swim. Sword raised for another strike, Pan wades in deeper, chasing after his retreating prey. As Rumple's head goes under the water he sees a long, dark shape gliding past. He fights to push himself to the surface and he hears violent splashing and a shriek. His magic finally takes control of his body, healing the belly wound even as it floods his arms with the strength to swim against the tide. Gasping, he breaks the surface and propels himself toward the shore, where Jefferson is wading in, calling to him. But the splashing and the shrieking become frantic, and Rumple stops swimming to look around.

The shrieks and the splashing are coming from Pan, who's slashing with his sword at the water—where a monster of the sea is streaking towards the Prince of Neverland.

"Use your magic!" Rumple shouts, but Pan doesn't hear him. Panic has seized the boy, rendered him senseless: Rumple has seen this same behavior in mice and small birds just before a snake or a wildcat swallows them.

Rumple summons the last of his own magic. It's not much; he's near exhaustion; but he manages to change the living, breathing crocodile into a jacket—a trick he's used in the past whenever confronted by crocodiles. Pan continues to slash at it with his sword for several minutes until he realizes the threat is gone. Rumple takes advantage of Pan's distraction to throw himself, panting, flat on his back, onto the shore, and Jefferson takes advantage too, taking his hat off his head and setting it onto the sand.

Calm now, Pan rises from the water, dripping as he flies to the shore. He lands with his sword pressed against Rumple's throat.

Jefferson curses but gives his hat a fierce spin. "We're getting out of here, even if we have to take him with us!" As the hat spins, he charges at Pan, both fists raised.

Pan throws a disgusted look at him and with a burst of magic, tosses him backward. As Jefferson picks himself up, Pan steps back, sheathing his sword. "I owe you. You and your friend can leave." Rumple clambers to his feet, brushing off the sand and inspecting the damage to his clothes. With an annoyed grunt, he tears off his gashed jacket and snatches the new one from the sea, pulling it on.

"Come on, Rum, we have to go!" Jefferson has scooped Tootles up and stands poised at the spinning hat, ready to leap.

But Rumple can't leave until he knows for sure: "Was this a fake?"

Pan folds his arms. His features are gradually changing back to those of the Prince of Neverland: only his eyes are Ascel's. "This is the place of forgetting. The more I forgot, the greater my magic. But not even for power would I let myself forget you."

"Rum!" Jefferson shouts. "We have to go now!" He leaps—but just before he enters the vortex, Pan snaps his fingers and Tootles floats out of Jefferson's arms and onto the beach. The lad yawns and rolls onto his side, sticking his thumb into his mouth.

"Three!" Jefferson shouts just before he disappears.

With a growl Rumple grabs Pan by the collar. "You're coming in his place, then!" But as he drags the boy toward the vortex, Pan giggles and there's a puff of magic, and when Rumple leaps, instead of the kid, there's a snapping turtle under his arm.

_Dark Castle, Three Hundred One Years After Rumple Became the Dark One_

Belle is sweeping the foyer. She yelps as a puff of gold smoke appears, followed by a pair of boots disturbing her tidy dirt pile. Her surprise is short-lived: she's grown used to her employer/beloved's odd ways. She drops the broom and throws her arms around his neck and comes this close to kissing him hello before she remembers she mustn't. "Welcome home, Rumplestiltskin! I've missed you!"

But the smile he returns to her is wan. Then she understands as she looks around him and finds no one else. "Oh. I'm sorry, my love."

"Hook took him." He slumps against the round table, nearly knocking over the bowl of wildflowers she's arranged there.

"Oh, Rumple." Her voice fills with worry. She tucks her head into his shoulder, and he rests his chin on the top of her head. There's a streak of flour in her hair and she smells like freshly baked bread. She smells like home.

"You'll find him. At least now you know to search the sea towns and the ports."

"And the lands with magic," he adds. But he's bone tired; he can't lift himself from the table.

She slips an arm around his shoulders and encourages him to lean on her. "Come inside. I have a stew on the stove and bread in the oven. We'll take off your boots and you can rest while I put supper on the table." She leads him into the Great Hall.

He kisses the top of her head. "Belle?"

"Hmm?"

"Will you come with me tomorrow?"

"I'd be happy to."


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

_Dark Castle, Three Hundred Six Years After Rumple Became the Dark One_

Two years into their search, there's a change in Rumplestiltskin that only Belle can see. The flair has gone out of his theatrics, the sparkle has gone from his skin: people no longer bemuse or interest him. He has become coldly efficient in his methods for eliciting information. He no longer thinks ten steps ahead when he approaches his quarry: whereas in the past he would hang back a while to study the prey, to determine all the various uses the victim could be put to, before making his selections and pouncing, now he simply dives in, like a hawk after a field mouse. As soon as he has the information he seeks, or has determined the prey can't provide it, he abandons the remains. It's a quick method of investigation, but it's robbing him of his ability to connect with people, a skill he needs to hang onto if he is to retain his humanity.

Some days, it seems he's running more on habit than hope. Belle worries for him and tries to draw him out as they sit, late in the evenings, in the rooms he rents for them. He pretends not to hear her gentle questions, so preoccupied does he appear to be with the hand spinner he carries everywhere. Sometimes he doesn't sit with her at all, claiming weariness so he can retreat to his own room; but because he always rents adjoining rooms, so that he's readily available if she needs protection, she can hear him pace compulsively. In the mornings, they both display dark circles beneath their eyes.

Nevertheless, he attempts to fulfill her wish of seeing the world, though he's weary of it, having explored it all many times over. He shows her the touristy sites, then takes her to more fascinating places that only the locals frequent. She picks up smatterings of many languages and pieces of clothing in exotic styles, and she learns to eat fried grasshoppers and raw fish and turtle meat. Her delight in learning makes friends for her, and Rumple stays out of her way, watching from a distance as she socializes. She wonders if he feels left out, but when she tries to drag him in, he balks. "Enjoy your conversations, sweet one; they are a part of the adventure for you, but not for me." He seems content to merely observe her interactions and listen to her babble about them when they're alone at night. By the fourth year, she is world weary too.

They've come close, many times: in the Agraban port of Godahar, they learn they've missed the _Jolly Roger_ by less than a week. Their hearts pounding, he teleports them to the ship's presumed destination. They are days ahead, and they pay a dozen longshoremen handsomely to report the first sighting of Hook's famed vessel, but it never arrives. A month passes before Rumple admits Hook has intentionally misinformed the Agrabans–as any smart pirate would.

At the end of the fourth year, she can't maintain her good cheer any more. His search has become the most important work in the world to her, and with only disappointment to show–not so much as a single report of a sighting of a teenage crewman aboard the _Jolly Roger_–her resolve cracks.

At the beginning of the fifth year, they find Smee in a seaport tavern. Hook's right-hand man has taken a side trip to procure some treasures for the captain (only half of which will actually make it back to the _Jolly Roger_, for Smee is an incurable opportunist). Rumple wastes no time with bribery or negotiation; he seizes the rat by the ear and drags him to an alley, with other patrons looking on in amusement. Rumple orders Belle to leave for her own good, but she grits her teeth and refuses, insisting her own good will be met only if she sees this pitiful excuse for a sailor get his just desserts. When she begs Rumple to be permitted the first punch, Smee realizes he had no rescuer here and crumples to his knees, offering Rumple every treasure he's procured and some he has yet to.

"The treasure I seek is a boy your captain took captive," Rumple growls.

"Baelfire. Yes, of course," Smee whimpers.

Now Rumple is enflamed. "How dare you speak his name! I'll yank your liver out and thrust it down your gullet, you warf rat."

"Wait, Rumple, let him answer first," Belle urges. When Smee bows his head to her in gratitude, she adds, "Then kill him. I'll hold your coat."

"Baelfire!" the rat squeaks. "He's fine, healthy, safe, a fine strapping lad! In fact, Hook thinks very highly of him; we all do. We rescued him from Neverland some years back."

Each of the Dark One's words drips poison. "Where is he?"

"We took him back to the Enchanted Forest. He said he wanted to see you, but I gather that happy reunion didn't come about. . .? It's not our fault. We got him safe to the port of Loameth, two years ago. After that, I can't say what happened to him. He was going to try to find the Dark Castle."

Belle and Rumple exchange a glance, and without a second thought for Smee, Rumple teleports her home.

"The castle would have let him in," Rumple is talking even as they materialize in the Great Hall. "It would've recognized my blood in him, and it would have obeyed his commands." They run through the castle, calling his name, and when they exhaust themselves, they return to the Great Hall and Rumple stalks to the standing mirror, which he had uncovered before they left on their search. "Show me who was here while I was gone."

The mirror flickers to life, producing an image of a smiling teenager, running through the corridors and calling for his papa. More images show the boy's growing disappointment as he realizes the castle has been unoccupied for a long time. Eventually Bae sits down in his father's chair at the dining table. He's exhausted and on the verge of tears, but a thought occurs to him: "Castle! Where is my father?"

Belle leans forward, wanting to touch the mirror, but she knows that do so would break the spell. She urges the image, "Go to the mirror, Bae. The mirror." For, behind Bae, the standing mirror is obediently reflecting an image of Rumple and Belle browsing wares and asking questions in a Weymont market.

But the boy remains seated, not seeing the mirror, and the castle has no other means to answer him. The boy rubs his face and tries again, with the same result.

"He should've known about the mirrors. I tried to teach him," Rumple says mournfully. "But he said magic is evil and he'd have no part of it."

Bae rests his head on his arms, eventually falling asleep. Hours later, he arises and walks out. The castle opens its gate for him, then closes and locks the gate when he approaches the road.

"North. He's headed to Alsford." Belle holds out her hand to Rumple. "I know it was years ago, but what if he's still there?"

"No," Rumple groans. "Not Alsford." He draws her attention back to the mirror: Bae has crossed the road and started on a faint path down the mountain. "Foxglove Glen. He went to see the Blue Fairy."

_Foxglove Glen, Three Hundred Six Years After Rumple Became the Dark One_

"Yes, he was here." The fairy queen hovers a safe distance from the Dark One. "He wanted another magic bean. He thought you had perhaps gone to the Land without Magic to find him; he'd been told you were making inquiries about it. I didn't have a bean, but I wanted to help him, so I told him about the giants."

"But they were all killed ages ago," Belle protests.

"Not all. One survived, and he has been attempting to resurrect the bean field. That's where Bae went." The fairy comes a little closer. "Rumplestiltskin, he loves you very much. I hope you find him, but know this: if you are still seeking a curse as the means, we fairies will stand against you."

"You always have," Rumple swats at her but misses. "Why should today be any different?"

_Neverland, Present Day_

Magic enables him to breathe under water and walk along the floor of the sea, ignored by the denizens there, even those who lick their chops in anticipation of the taste of his soft flesh. And if his own magic is not enough, he has an Acting Queen of the pixies riding on his shoulder, and all sea dwellers know how horrible pixies taste; worse, they bite and sting all the way down your throat. Sharks and stingrays, moray eels and jellyfish swarm around them but do not attack.

As Clochette directs him on his path ("Turn left at that hydrothermal vent. Watch out for that trench"), Rumple works to calm his mind in preparation for what's to come. He's heard no first-hand accounts of this cave she's leading him to, just legends of legends, and he knows what those are worth. But he also knows Pan, and more importantly, Pan knows him, better perhaps than he knows himself, because Pan has access to Rumple's subconscious mind.

That is a weapon far more powerful than any Rumple has possessed—and he's possessed some of the best. In the early days of the acquisition of his dark magic, Rumple studied all the writings on mind infiltration, but he never actually experimented with it: mages who did usually wound up insane. Only Pan had used this magic repeatedly and survived it, and that, Rumple believed, was thanks to the fact that the power had not been acquired through study and practice, but rather had been given to Neverland's Prince directly from the Original Dark One. In his latter days, as he rotted in Charming's underground prison and his hold on reality became tenuous, Rumple thought about this power and was glad he never pursued it. Insanity, he decided as he hung upside down from the bars of his cage, was not a good color on him.

That is what he's risking as he walks across the seafloor; that is what he fears the most, not the loss of his life, but the loss of his mind.

_Dark Castle, Three Hundred Six Years After Rumple Became the Dark One_

"I hate humans!" the giant roars. "You come any closer and I'll squash you."

Rumple wonders if the giant has heard about the Dark One's little snail crunching habit. "Ah, but you see," he smiles sweetly, shouting to be heard, "I'm not a human." He waves Belle back; wisely, she hides behind a discarded giant boot. "I'm an imp. The last of my kind, as it happens. The ogres killed us off."

The giant softens his expression. "Really? I'm the last of my kind too."

"As I've heard," Rumple admits. "It's my hope that you will understand, then, what I'm seeking. May I tell you my story?"

"I don't know. . . ."

"It's about my son. The last of my family."

The giant's lip quivers. "I'm Anton." He bows slightly.

Rumple returns the bow. "Rumplestiltskin."

"Come in, Rumplestiltskin. I'll hear your story."

Belle gnaws at the ends of her hair. It's a habit he's tried to help her break, but right now she doesn't care about hair health; all she cares about is her beloved, who's trying to win over the good will of a being who's ten times bigger than he is–and to do it without magic. It should've been her, she thinks: she's the master storyteller. She gnaws her hair and jiggles her foot.

And then with a puff of gold smoke, he's there beside her, unscathed, as far as she can tell. He shakes his head. "Let's go home, Belle."

"He couldn't help you?"

"He'd given his last bean to Bae. You see, just before they were slaughtered, his people salted their bean field to keep the magic out of mercenary hands." Rumple snorts. "The Fates never forget or forgive, it seems. Belle, the mercenary who wanted to steal the beans was a young man who became a prince through one of my deals."

"What do we do now?"

But he just shakes his head and holds out his hand to transport them home.

She prepares a pot of tea that neither of them drinks, and she drops into the fireside chair in the Great Hall. She looks about at the dust that's accumulated while they were searching the world. With a forced smile she suggests, "I thought we might have something light for supper. Soup and cheese?" But before he can answer, she ducks her face into her apron and cries, long, tired sobs that have been building for four years. He takes her to his shoulder to soothe her, but he breaks down too, and in the end she's the one rubbing soothing circles on his back. But she has no encouraging words left: she's spent them all.

The day after, he receives a midnight summons from a sad young queen who desperately wants, as so many before her have, revenge against her enemies. She's mistaken: it's peace that the queen should ask for, Rumple tells Belle, but the key word here is _desperate_: for Regina is his chosen one. He's waited for her for centuries: she's totally unique, both powerful enough in her magic to cast any spell, and bloodless enough to make any sacrifice.

And then he sits Belle down and tells her Regina is his pawn and he's grooming her to cast a destructive spell over the Enchanted Forest–he calls it what it is: a curse that will affect innocent people, a necessary evil that he now believes is his only route to Bae.

Belle listens in horror, watches in dismay through a magic mirror as he answers Regina's summons and in his charmingly playful way begins to close the web he's spent decades spinning around the sad sorceress.

When he returns to the Dark Castle, he walks directly to the fireplace, throws another log on and rubs his hands together above the flames. He doesn't speak or glance at Belle, but she knows him well enough now to understand why: he's not angry; he's ashamed.

Belle is ashamed of him too, and she turns on her heel and retires to her chambers, drawing a quilt to her chin.

_Neverland, Present Day_

Rumple suddenly becomes aware that he and Clochette are alone. The sea creatures, from the seahorses to the octopi, have scattered and run. He frowns at Clochette in question, but she doesn't need to answer, for they're suddenly surrounded by mermaids. Females only: they are the hunters, the guardians, the explorers, while their men tend the home and raise the young.

Rumple has encountered various species of merpeople in his travels; he's even made—well, not friends exactly, but dependable business partners amongst them, particularly those who live in the warmer southern seas of Fairytale Land. They are an easy-going lot, non-territorial, inquisitive and easily amused, unlike their cousins in the cold climes.

Neverland's ocean is very cold. And, as he's heard, Pan has caused irreparable damage to landwalker-mer relations. Merfolk lack the best of vision, so to them one humanoid looks much like another. Rumple casts a quick glance at his shoulder to make sure Clochette is still with him, to verify his identification.

And then he rubs his right hand over his left, where he wears proof of his identity.

"Warm winds and calm waters, Your Majesty." Rumple calls out in Midwestern Mer. It will sound flat and uneducated to the Neverland Merfolk's ears, but it's the dialect he learned and it will have to do. The merqueen is larger than he is in both height and weight, and that, along with his accent, gives her confidence enough to approach him.

Clochette also bows, though less lowly, for she's a queen too. "Warm winds and calm waters, Queen Blyth."

The bustiest mermaid—that's how the Mer choose their queens—swims right up to him, peering at him through her weak eyes, and then dragging her tongue across his face. She wrinkles her nose and her entourage mimics her expression: she's decided he wouldn't taste good. Too old and sour, he supposes: Neverland Mer generally don't eat warm-blooded creatures, but they have made exceptions for tender-fleshed humans, especially pirates who have pre-marinated themselves in rum.

The merqueen answers in the universal greeting: "Warm winds and calm waters, landwalker, air rider. Why have you invaded our world?" Along with intelligence, the Mer lack diplomacy.

Keep it simple. "We come to conquer Pan."

Blyth's scaly face brightens. "Is that true, landwalker? Your kind often speaks lies." She stares at the pixie. "This landwalker is yours?"

Clochette giggles softly. "I claim responsibility for him, yes. He speaks the truth."

"Really. You are aware, many have tried to beat Pan and all have failed?"

"I am." Rumple is unruffled—on the surface. But his heart is pounding.

"What makes you different?"

"I am"—it sounds silly—"the Bearer of Light."

Blyth flicks her tail and her entourage huddles around her like a football team around their quarterback. Deep within Rumple, Mr. Gold wishes he was back in Storybrooke in his Barcolounger, enjoying a Patriots game on the flat-screen TV. The mermaids squeal and squeak and hiss and pop so fast Rumple can't follow their conversation, then Blyth flicks her tail and the huddle breaks. Blyth is clearly interested in Rumple's claim but remains dubious. "Why should we believe you?"

He raises his left hand, turning it palm-in. A long "oooh" comes from every mer mouth, for on his third finger he wears an article of jewelry that Storybrookers always assumed was a cheap 1970's mood ring, certainly not in keeping with his designer suits and his gold-handled cane. All Mer know this ring. It identifies him as a charter member of the Wizards Chapter of the Land Dwellers' Auxiliary of the Poseidon League, Enchanted Realms Division. This ring serves as a visa, granting him free, unhindered passage through any ocean.

"Welcome, Bearer of Light," Blyth now bows to him.

"Welcome, Wizard," the other mermaids bow.

"We grant you safe passage through our waters," Blyth continues, "and we stand with you in solidarity against Pan, but as much as we would like to, we can't fight beside you. The Original Ones forbid it."

He nods. "I know. As much as I would appreciate your support, it's my fight. But prophesy has revealed that the Bearer of Light will defeat the Prince of Neverland."

"Let the prophesy be made real," the mermaids murmur.

Rumple dips his head in thanks, muttering, "Amen."


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

**A/N. The next couple of chapters were influenced by Sting's song "The Soul Cages."**

* * *

_Dark Castle, Three Hundred Six Years After Rumple Became the Dark One_

Before dawn, Belle awakens to the sensation of being watched. The imp's standing, hands clasped, at the foot of her bed. She sits up but neither of them acknowledges the other for a long moment, until he says, "You were wrong about me, Belle. I am a monster."

She nods slowly. "This curse is the only way to get to the Land without Magic."

"Yes."

"Then I'm a monster too."

He blinks slowly, trying to figure her out, wondering if she will turn away or turn ally when he tells her everything.

* * *

It's almost easy to pretend things are normal again. Belle returns to her chores, Rumple returns to his deal making and training Regina. At times, Belle envies Regina the time Rumple devotes to her, but then she remembers what Regina will have to do to cast the curse. Belle steers clear of the witch on training days, appearing only long enough to serve tea, then retreating to the library or the sewing room.

Regina has been trained well, however: always looking for an advantage, she notes the way her tutor follows his servant with his eyes and the way his hand brushes hers as he takes his cup from her. She herself is not immune to dalliances with servants, but this relationship is particularly interesting because she's always thought of Rumple as a sexless creature. So she observes; she has many opportunities to, over her two-year apprenticeship. She observes and learns and imagines her tutor would be proud of her as she puts the pieces together.

Rumple tells Belle about the con game with Frankenstein and the Hatter. "It won't be long now." She knows he's referring to the casting of the curse. But he doesn't seem happy about it: he sloshes his tea in his cup and stares at the broken edge.

"What's wrong?"

"There's something I haven't told you yet." Then he looks up at her, his eyes already asking forgiveness. "Two things." And he shares with her the details of the curse. "So none of us will remember who we are, where we came from, or who we loved in this life, until the curse breaker comes," he summarizes; he wants to be sure she understands all the ramifications. "For twenty-eight years, we will live lives that the curse has fabricated for us. We will be running on a wheel of time, so we won't be aware of the years passing; it will be seamless and painless. But the curse will suppress our real memories and implant very detailed, fake ones into our minds. We won't recognize each other, though we'll pass each other in the street, perhaps even form friendships, families– but it will all be fake. People who were never meant to be together will be locked into loveless relationships, until the savior breaks the curse."

"Twenty-eight years!" she explodes in a way she never has before. She throws her tea cup at him: with his magic he catches it, but he allows the tea to splash upon him. She needs something, however small, to reassure her she has some power against him. But he also realizes that to her, twenty-eight years is longer than a lifetime, when to him, it's hardly an afterthought, so he permits her her rage; he listens quietly as she rants until she's out of wind, throwing her hands into the air, swishing her skirts as she stalks from one corner of the room to another. Every point she makes is valid, especially her claim that he's a selfish bastard to rob innocent people, especially children, of their families and friends and lives for twenty-eight years, because only he will benefit from it, and it's all his fault to begin with.

Periodically in her rant she pauses to demand a reply, and he merely agrees, "You're right." When she runs out of steam, she finally assesses her argument's effect upon him and finds him unmoved. Hoarse, she drops into her chair and sits in silence, her head in her hands, for ages.

When she raises her head, she asks wearily, "And then we will remember ourselves? And come home?"

"Yes. If we choose to. Some of us may wish to stay in the new world."

"The Land without Magic. And you? Would you be content to live without magic, to stay with Bae?"

"I have. . . a little insurance, set aside in case I need it." He tells her then his second secret: he has bottled true love, and it will provide magic, if he needs it in the new world. "If I can't find Bae without it."

"I see." Her foot is jiggling: she's still angry. "Don't you think that would drive Bae away? After all, he left here to get away from magic."

"Only to find him," Rumple swears. "I'd use magic only to find him, and then I'd be done with it. I may not even need it at all."

"So as soon as you're reunited, you'll give up magic forever."

"Yes." He sees the doubt etched on her face. "I promise. All I want is my family: him and you." He waits for the implication to seep through the barrier of her anger. "Belle, I release you from our agreement. You know now what's coming, and you know the extent I will go to have my son back. You're a good person, sweet one; to stay with me is to make yourself a part of my crimes. You're free to go, now that you know everything; or if you can bear to stay, know that we can be together in the new world when the curse is broken, if you wish it."

"Is it what _you_ wish?" she challenges him.

"It is."

She presses his hands to her chest. "It's an awful thing you're doing, selfish and cruel, but you've at least tried to lessen the suffering by supressing memories and blocking the progress of time. This scheme is evil, but yet its purpose is love. I see profound love in you, Rumple; someday I hope you'll see that love is your power; magic is your weakness. When that day comes, we can have our happy ending. I know that day will come, and so, yes, Rumple, I wish to be with you in this world and any other."

He kneels before her, no longer her master, no longer the all-powerful mage to her ordinary human. Since becoming the Dark One, he has knelt to no one: it's a customary sign of fealty and he's offered allegiance to no one. Belle understands the full import of the gesture and her breath catches.

"For five years you followed me in my quest." On his knees before her, the lame spinner rises to the surface and he has trouble maintaining eye contact with her. "I'm asking for your indulgence for twenty-eight more. It's a terrible sacrifice I'm asking, with small reward at the end." He smiles wryly and gestures to himself. "Just me. But I vow, when the curse is broken, I will find you, and it will be my honor to follow you for the rest of our lives."

So caught up is she in the romance of his words that she misses the phrasing that would have informed her that in the new world, once he has surrendered his magic, he will be entirely human, like her. In her bed that night, when she reflects on his words, she'll come to realization and will be shocked all over again that he has promised to walk away not only from his power but from his immortality. "You're offering me. . .a new contract?"

His odd eyes twinkle. "A marital one, but it's also forever, sweet one."

She cocks her head. "I always did think long engagements to be wise, but twenty-eight years?"

"I'm suggesting we marry twice. Here, and again in the new world, twenty-eight years from now."

Pain and hope battle in her eyes. "Is there no way the curse can be rewritten so that we can be together through it?"

He shakes his head. "During the cursed years, there will be no love. It's the condition that Regina has placed upon it: the only happy ending will be hers. But what she doesn't realize is that it's very difficult to sustain your own happiness when no one around you can be happy."

"It's such a long time," she sighs.

"Yes, but we won't be aware of it." He clasps her hands. "So, Belle, will you marry me, and then marry me again?"

She doesn't hesitate. Though after seven years with him, she has no illusions, she has more than enough love to make up for all their mistakes, past and future. "I will."

_Neverland, Present Day_

Clochette directs Rumple to a huge maw of a hole. It's so dark that he can't peer into it; the waters within are still and devoid of life, even the tiniest of plankton. He summons a ball of light into his hand, then kneels and stretches his hand as far as he can into the hole. A series of winding stone steps is all he can make out. He straightens. "Have you been inside?"

The pixie shakes her head. "None of us. We've heard stories, of course."

He raises a hopeful eyebrow. "From those who've gone in and come out again?"

She shakes her head again. "From Pan."

He grunts. "Not the most reliable source." He studies her face, looking for fear or dread and finding none. "You don't have to come with me. You could wait here."

"Is that what Belle would do?" She raises her chin. It's not really a question; she thinks Belle's thoughts, feels Belle's feelings.

His mouth pulls into a half-grin. "Well, then." Guided by the light in his hand and her pixie light, he lowers himself to the first step, testing it with half his weight; bits of the stone crumble but the step holds, so he continues. He counts thirteen steps and estimates an increase in water temperature of ten degrees or so as he descends. No life, no sound, no light but what they bring are in this underwater cavern. His boot makes contact with something hollow and round: it rolls away. He increases the intensity of the light in his hand so he can see it, and instantly he regrets doing so, though on second consideration, it's better he see the truth of this place: the object his boot connected with is a skull, and there are countless mates to it, along with leg and arm and hip and rib bones littering the cavern floor. He kneels to examine some of the bones for indications of the cause of death. None of the bones were gnawed, cracked or sliced. "What did they die of?"

Clochette speculates. "Fear."

"Oh." He straightens again and proceeds.

_Alsford, Three Hundred Six Years After Rumple Became the Dark One_

For the day, they've gone their separate ways: he to the depths of the Barrowlea Sea to harvest a perfect pearl for her wedding ring, and she to the city of Alsford, to a renowned maker of ball gowns and wedding dresses.

It was the second biggest mistake of his long life.

When evening comes and the magical carriage has still not brought her home, he goes in search of her with the same anxiety he has searched for Bae. He tears the city apart, starting with the dressmaker's shop and ending with a house of ill repute: not that he thinks she's gone there—Belle is innocent but not naïve—but just because it's the last building left in the city that he hasn't raided. And then he begins on neighboring farms, then other towns, working his way in widening circles. He searches, ignoring the deals that are necessary to make the curse happen, ignoring Regina, not even sending her a message of explanation for his failure to appear at their appointed trainings. He hires searchers, he throws his gold and his threats around: soon, the entire Enchanted Forest is on the lookout for Belle of the Dark Castle, for to find her will win the searcher a favor from the Dark One.

Six months pass and there is no evidence of a true sighting of her, only rumors. He retreats to his castle, directionless, confused, until one morning his chosen one sashays in and the castle, recognizing her as his student, opens itself to her. As if she is the queen here too, she enters the Great Hall, his and Belle's sanctuary, without waiting for an invitation, and she helps herself to the tea he's prepared for himself (there's always an extra cup—Belle's—just in case).

"What are you doing here, Regina?" he demands, but his voice lacks force. "I didn't send for you."

"We had a deal for magic lessons, didn't we? The Dark One doesn't break his deals." But the smugness in her smile indicates more. She swishes a spoon around in the cup she's claimed for herself: he growls and magically removes the cup, Belle's cup, from Regina's murderous hands (he'd directed the queen on the path to bloodlust, but she'd walked it with her eyes wide open). Undeterred, she conjures her own cup and taps the spoon against its rim, setting his teeth on edge. She answers his glare with a syrupy smile. "By the way, _Master_, I believe I have some news for you concerning your runaway maid."

The wool he was spinning slips from his hands, but he measures his tone. "What news?"

"Well." Her tea forgotten, she wanders up to him, invading his space, making him wince. She pushes her lovely mouth right up against his ear as though sharing a secret in a crowded room. Her warm breath makes his hair flutter and his hands clench, desiring to wrap themselves around her neck. "She made her way home—stealing your carriage and a considerable sum of your gold."

He'd given Belle that money for her trousseau and her wedding dress.

"She appeared at her father's castle—some months ago, in fact." Regina's breath smells of fruity wine; he wonders if she had to drink to work up her courage to approach him like this. She knows his volatility: it takes courage to come here unbidden and lie to his face. "Maurice let her in and ordered her to be kept hidden. A wise decision, don't you think? Considering what her people thought of her. You know: the Dark One's whore. Some of them even thought you might have infected her with dark magic." She throws her head back and laughs. "Silly, isn't it, how little people know about our arts?"

"I searched Fairiron," he says through his teeth. "I raided Maurice's castle. It was empty."

"You were late," she shrugs.

"I was there just four days after she—" his voice hitches—"disappeared. Not even so much as a barn cat there."

"You were late," Regina reiterates. "And you weren't listening. I said he hid her away. He moved his entire household to Swynn Hollow."

"A hundred miles away." Rumple shakes his head. "Now I know you're lying."

"Am I? And why would I do that?" Regina walks behind him, brushing a hand casually, familiarly, along his shoulders. "You know what Swynn Hollow is known for, don't you? The biggest monastery in Fairytale Land. And the most austere. As part of their morning prayers, they flog themselves. 'Driving out the demons,' they call it. That's where Maurice took her. Care to guess why?"

"You're lying."

"So he moved in on a distant cousin, took over the poor man's castle. Belle was never actually seen by the townsfolk, mind you, but they learned of her presence from a cleric who went slumming one night." She makes a drinking motion. "Seems those poor priests need a reason to flog themselves. Anyway, Cousin Mo locked his little girl in the highest, coldest tower of the castle, and he summoned the priests with their religious tomes and their cats o' nine tails and who knows what else—well, you and I, being what we are, can well imagine. Seems the Dark One's Whore was possessed by a legion of demons and every last one of them had to be driven out." Regina runs a painted fingernail along his jaw line. "It took days. It's said the screams rattled the castle walls."

"You're lying," he insists, faintly.

"And rivers of blood seeped through the stones of the tower." Regina tosses her head. "But you know how people exaggerate. I'm sure it was mere bucketfuls. She was, after all, a petite thing, wasn't she?"

Rumple's head snaps up and his claw snatches her teasing finger, twisting it just short of breaking. "'Was'?"

"Well, yes," Regina makes a pretty pout. "Now you've gone and spoiled the end of the story. After days of enduring their verbal and physical torture—you know, it's said this particular sect sometimes uses rape as a punishment for extreme crimes, and what's more extreme than making love with the Dark One?"

His mouth drops open, but quickly closes—not quick enough, however; Regina sees he intended to deny having taken Belle's innocence. With a satisfied head toss, the queen concludes, "After days of that torture, well, the poor thing never was strong, anyway. She broke down, admitted you'd infected her, and was heard to scream 'Master Rumplestiltskin, I come!' as she leapt out a window that no one realized had been opened." She gives it a moment to sink in. "The stable hands were called in with their shovels to scrape her remains from the concrete. They burned the bits they could gather."

A shudder runs up his spine. He's going to be sick: he swallows compulsively to keep the bile down. She pats his cheek. "Well, I imagine you'll be busy today, hiring a new maid. I'll come back tomorrow for my lessons." She vanishes, leaving him to his chipped cup, the Barrowlea pearl and a renewed desire to destroy this world and everyone in it.

_Neverland, Present Day_

Stepping over the skeletons, he repeats over and over in his head _Bearer of Light, victor by prophesy. _He has every confidence in the promise; he's just not sure he's the one it refers to. There's never been anything "light" about him. Nevertheless, this is the path to Henry and for once, Rumplestiltskin will do the brave thing. His mouth sets in a firm line and he moves forward. Clochette rises from his shoulder.

"Rumplestiltskin, wait."

He draws up short: it's Belle's voice coming from Clochette's tiny body.

"I can't use my magic beyond this point: it must be all you, acting on your own instincts with your own power. It was you that the Original Ones chose for this role; only you will know the right things to do. But I can offer you moral support. I'll see you on the other side, Rumple." The pixie's light blinks out momentarily, and when it flares again, Belle is standing in her place. She's wearing a navy blue blazer, slacks and a silvery silk blouse that he longs to touch, and her hair is pulled back with a silver comb that he gave her for Valentine's Day. She blushes at the naked admiration in his gaze. "I'm in a council meeting. We're deciding when to reopen the school."

"It's a good thing I'm not there, then. I wouldn't be able to concentrate on the discussion."

She ducks her head, smiling. "You will be. You'll be here soon enough." She raises her face again to meet his eyes, offering him the strength of her faith. "You will kill Pan and free the children from his tyranny, and you will bring Henry home."

He nods, though he doesn't feel the certainty she does. He takes her in his arms and she feels so real; her lips move beneath his as he kisses her. He releases her reluctantly. "Let's get to it, then."

"Yes, let's get to it." A new voice interrupts the intimate moment. Hands clap and light floods the cavern, momentarily blinding him; when his vision clears he watches an iron door appear in the eastern wall of the cavern. It swings open upon a space that's free of water. Pan steps into the open doorway and spreads his arms wide. "Welcome, little brother. Come and see what I've prepared for you, what your rather simplistic world would call Hell, designed especially for you."


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

_Dark Castle, Three Hundred Eight Years After Rumple Became the Dark One_

This is it, then. Rumple runs his fingertips over the leather lacings of the steamer trunk, which now contains his most treasured of his treasures: jewels, including the Poseidon League ring, historical artifacts, weaponry, scrolls and books, everything one of a kind and priceless, acquired through deals and, rarely, outright purchases over three hundred years. And on top, four objects valuable to no one, but wrapped within the Golden Fleece and shielded with a layer of magic as if they matter more than anything else: a sketch of Baelfire, drawn by Milah just days before she left with Hook; a shawl, woven by Maerwynn and used as a baby blanket for Bae; a miniature portrait of Belle, painted by an artist in an Agraban bazaar; and the chipped cup. In the lining of his boot he's hidden his dagger.

He forces the emotion from his face, although he's quite alone, and with a seemingly careless flick of his wrist he sends the trunk to an abandoned cottage deep within the woods where the mushrooms grow. The cottage, still the property of a portal jumper who now lives in big-city luxury, has gradually been filled with trunks and boxes of precious goods belonging to the only two people in the world who know what's coming tomorrow.

It would be easy to stay here for the rest of the evening, in his austere bedchamber, reading perhaps, or thinking through last details in the grand scheme, but he forces himself to walk down the long hall to the chambers at the east end. This room in the mornings fills with sunshine, and just outside the tall east-facing windows is an oak tree in which a robin builds her nest every spring. He's counted at least four families raised in that tree: not that he cares about useless creatures, but as master of the castle, he must be aware of everything happening on his property. With two big fireplaces, this room is snug and warm in the winter, bright and sweet-smelling in the spring, and receives shade and a cool breeze in the summer. The walls, painted yellow, are decorated with portraits—none of them significant, none worth a copper—depicting tea-party playing little girls, ball-kicking boys, sprites dancing in waterfalls, picnicking lovers. It's the most comfortable bedroom in the castle, and that's why he's never slept here. After he'd given up on the notion of breaking the spirit of his new caretaker, he'd released her from the dungeon and assigned her to this room.

As soon as he opens the door, he smells fresh-baked bread and roses. His throat clutches. In her wardrobe still hang her dresses: the gold ball-gown she arrived in, the robin's-egg blue work dress he'd given her on her second day here, more work dresses acquired over the years, and colorful shawls and capes and scarves she'd purchased as they traveled the world in search of Bae. In the bottom of the wardrobe are her shoes. He clicks his tongue: whereas his are always properly paired, polished and lined up like King George's soldiers, hers fall all over each other, they're scuffed and run down at the heel and one of them has no mate (He knows how it must feel). She took such good care of their castle, her dresses, her jewelry, her skin, but when it came to shoes, her penchant for chaos ran rampant. He has no idea why, just typical Belle, he supposes: ladylike on the outside, but a caged rebel beneath the skin.

He sits on her loosely made bed (he likes hospital corners: his brief training in the army has in some ways stuck with him). The quilt was made by her great-grandmother on her mother's side: though they were nobles and encouraged to practice the fine arts rather than the practical ones, her maternal heritage is one of pride in the knowledge of work: whether a de Marchand woman actually _labored_ on any sort of an ongoing basis was a moot point; they all learned how to clean and cook and sew and quilt. It stood them in good stead in times of war and, in times of peace, earned their families the respect of the public, for everyone admired a People's Princess. Grandmama de Marchand was, therefore, a quilter; her daughter, a gourmet cook. Belle used to joke that if these grand ladies could see her now, on her knees, scrubbing a stone floor, they'd curtsey to her for carrying family values to the fullest extent.

Belle joked a lot.

So did he, with her. Until her, he never realized he could be witty: playful, yes, with Bae, but hardly witty. Born, as Milah claimed, under a storm cloud, to a mother who disparaged his father, in a community that belittled all three of them, Bae never had the chance to develop a sense of humor. Rumple wonders sometimes what the child might have become if Belle had raised him; he also wonders sometimes what sort of husband he himself might have become, if Belle had been his bride.

As he rests on her bed, he counts the dresses hanging in her wardrobe. If Belle were here, if she were standing in this room, packing to leave, preparing to abandon him, as she should have long ago, running off to find her own Prince Charming, she would huff at the waste here. Box these clothes up and deliver them to the poorhouse in Alsford, she would insist: clothes are made to be used, needs are made to be met, people are made to serve other people.

As she served him, always to the best of her ability. As, eventually, he came to serve her.

He waves his hand and the clothes, even the worn-heeled shoes, vanish; in the morning, the widow who manages the Alsford poorhouse will find these clothes freshly laundered and neatly boxed on her doorstep. "As you wish, Belle," he murmurs, walking out, closing her door behind him.

And then it's time to face Bae's room.

Well, the term isn't completely correct. Bae never lived here: Rumple bought the castle from a family heavy in titles but light in pockets; their fool of a father had ordered the castle constructed at the peak of a mountain because he wanted to look down upon his neighbors. It didn't occur to him at the time that he would have no neighbors, the nearest town being half-a-day's ride below; nor did it occur to him that for six months out of every year, the road up to his fortress would be impassible, due to either snow or flood, and he would be trapped inside with a very bored wife. They stuck it out, though, for ten years, until with the birth of their ninth child (because those winter nights were so very long), he just couldn't take it any more and upon the break of spring was seen running all the way down his mountain, screaming at the top of his lungs as his children and servants and wife impassively watched him go. When it became clear he wasn't going to return, the wife sent the servants away, sold off the furniture and went with her brood to live with her mother-in-law in the Southern Isles, where she sipped rum from a cocoanut shell as her children ran barefoot through the jungles. And so the revenue department took possession of the rather large estate and sold it to Rumple for the mere price of the back taxes because what man in his right mind would want to live at the top of a mountain?

But it was just perfect for the image Rumple wanted to portray: a distant and mysterious Dark One, unlike his predecessors, who, when not busy torturing the enemies of their dagger owners, enjoyed frequenting taverns and whorehouses, both homegrown and exotic. Rumple just wanted to be left alone, so an inaccessible castle fit the bill.

But the first chamber he furnished, upon taking ownership, was this one, the biggest on the first floor, consisting of four rooms: a bathing room (Rumple conjured a geyser in the bathtub, so that the water would always be warm), a bedroom with a king-sized bed and three wardrobes, a play room, with shelves upon shelves of toys, games and books that Rumple changed out every year with objects suited to a progressively older child, and a deep closet-within-a-closet which a young boy could pretend was a cave or an older boy could retreat to, to think his private thoughts.

Rumple had no idea how old Bae might be at any given year. From his studies and his travels, he understood that time moved faster in some lands than in others. Deep in Rumple's heart, however, Bae would remain a child forever: sometimes fourteen, sometimes four, sometimes four days old, but always a child. Rumple tried to trick himself out of this illusion by marking the passing of the years on a calendar and marking the likely growth of his son on the back of Bae's bedroom door: five foot five at 14, five foot six at 15—he imagined a major growth spurt at 16, which was when he himself had come into his full height. Rumple stopped marking the door in the year Bae should have turned 18.

In the year Bae should have turned 24, Rumple started weaving baby clothes and buying baby toys all over again. He wanted to be prepared, just in case he was a grandfather now. He bought things suitable for girls as well as boys. He had no preference for the gender of his grandchild, as long as the youngster was healthy. . .and unafraid of imps. In the year Bae should have turned 50, Rumple furnished the west-facing balcony with rocking chairs and imagined he and Bae would sit here as the sun went down, rocking Bae's grandchildren to sleep.

In the year Bae should have turned 150, Rumple with a flick of his hand turned all the drapes black and closed off this room. In that year he made no deals.

In the next year, he began studying the science of time in earnest, and he tested magic's ability to affect time. He never found a way to manipulate time, not to speed it or slow it or transcend it. Unlike some of his fellow mages, he never attempted, however, to cheat Death. Some decisions must be left to Nature.

He now opened the door to Bae's rooms for the first time in a hundred and fifty years. A self-perpetuating spell kept the place free of dust and mice: the castle changed the bed linens once a year and opened the windows on warm days to allow fresh air in. And Belle had come in, she'd told him as much, to clean, before she knew what these rooms were. When she had learned their purpose, she asked if she should keep out, but after giving it some thought he'd decided he liked the idea of her cleaning these rooms. Bae would have liked the idea too: it felt kind of motherly.

If, where Bae is now, time moves at the same pace as it does in the Enchanted Forest, he is three hundred twenty-three years old. Rumple tries not to think about that. Only once, on Bae's 150th birthday, had he allowed the thought that Bae might not be alive—by the dictates of Nature, should not be alive. The worlds are strange and unpredictable; only love could be counted on, and Rumple has to believe that Love (for, though he doesn't know for sure, that's how he thinks of Love, as a living being whose name should be capitalized) will not allow Death to find Bae before Rumple does. No one, not even the Original Dark One, could be so cruel.

Rumple renews the perpetual cleaning spell on Bae's bedchambers and he fluffs the pillows before he extinguishes the light.

Tomorrow, Cinderella will summon him; tomorrow, she, Charming and Thomas will lie to him and imprison him. Tomorrow, Cinderella's lies will force her debt to him to climb, to a price so high that the rules of magic will insist the debt cannot be left behind when the curse sweeps her and Rumple and everyone else to the new land. And there, Cinderella will cheat him again, and the debt will skyrocket, until in desperation the savior herself will intervene; and being the savior, she will take the debt onto herself.

The last, and most important, piece of the plan will fall into place then: in payment for Cinderella's debt, the savior will save Rumplestiltskin. Then, and only then, will he have Bae back.

But tomorrow, Rumple must begin to pay for his crimes—but not, as Charming and Snow think, his crimes against the kingdom. In his own mind, Rumple will be paying for his crimes against Love.

_Neverland, Present Day_

"So, Rumpie, shall we play?" Pan is leaning casually against the doorframe. He flicks a warning finger at Belle. "No help from you, Clochette. You know the rules."

Belle shakes her head. "No _magic_. The rules say nothing about moral support. Besides, I may not be bound to those rules, considering who I am at the moment."

Pan shrugs. "I suppose I needn't quibble. You have no powers in there, anyway."

Belle juts her chin out defiantly. "I have love."

Pan scoffs, because he knows the truth of things: _love_ is just the pretty label people put on more animalistic emotions like possessiveness and lust. And he scoffs because she's just reminded him that "who she is at the moment" is a magicless, mild-mannered and rather small mortal: she doesn't even have a sword or a hook with which to put up any kind of challenge. She goes by the name "Belle" and that's appropriate: a bell is a hunk of tin that makes a short-lived, pretty sound but otherwise has no use.

He turns his attention to the real threat—the real opportunity—the Dark One. Now there's power: those who possess magic can see his power rolling off of him in waves that make their own skin tingle and their tongues loll for just a taste of it as it's carried on the air. And everyone knows that to kill the Dark One is to obtain all his powers, all at once. What must that feel like, Pan wonders, that first rush as the most immense magic in the world seeps into one's skin, streaks through one's bloodstream and races to the heart and the brain? He's about to find out, for he knows Rumple so well. "I'm offering you a deal, Rumpie." Yes, he's fully aware—and now Rumple is fully aware that he's fully aware—that Rumplestiltskin has inherited their father's disease: he can't resist deals.

Pan gestures to the cave behind him. "You've heard the legends, so you have a vague idea what'll happen in there and why. See, I think Old Tink here has a screw loose. I think she's confused you and Henry. I think Henry's the true Bearer of Light and you're the fraud you always were. King of the Cowards. If I'm right, you'd better turn around and high-tail it out of here right now, because what happened to them"—he gestures to the skeletons at their feet—"will happen to you, in triplicate, because you have so much more to answer for, don't you? But supposing you are the mage the Original Ones chose to finish this millennia-old game of theirs. This is where we'll find out." He stands aside and sweeps his hand toward the room behind him, so dark that Rumple can't see into it. "Your proving ground: your own private Hell. The Bearer of Light will walk out undamaged, proven my equal. You win this game and you'll win the right to fight me."

Pan waves a hand at the cave. "Look inside, Rumpie." He grips his brother's arm and propels him toward the mouth of the cave, but forces him to stop just at the entrance.

Rumplestiltskin looks. The front of the cave is nothing other than what one would expect of a cave: stone, dirt, stalactites and stalagmites, moisture dripping from the ceiling. But he hears a rustling like bat wings from deep within, and as he listens more closely he hears sobbing and moaning, and as his eyes adjust to the darkness in the far recess of the cave, he can detect shapes and movement. He raises the ball of light he carries in his hand, and now he can see clearly: wire cages, 2-feet high, 4-feet wide, stacked atop each other and reaching so far up that he can't count them.

Inside each cage, huddled, knees to chest, shivering, crying, moaning, hands gripping bars to rattle them, is a shadow. As his light shines through the cave and reflects off the wires, the shadows cease their moaning and twist their heads awkwardly towards his light. Their fingers cram between the wires and strain in a mad attempt to touch the light. Their empty eyes stare back at him.

"Now here's the big prize, Rumpie. You defeat me and all the souls in my cages will go free, including one I think you'll recognize. Look close now, to your left, that cage at the very top of the nearest stack. The small shadow there, see it? Well, your eyes will tell you it looks no different from any of the others, just smaller, but if you focus on it, you'll recognize it."

Rumple stares and the designated shadow, which also seems newer, more human than the rest, stares back at him. The shadow blinks and Rumple recognizes the eyes. He can't help but call out to it: "Henry!"

"Got it in one." Pan clasps Rumple's shoulder in congratulations. "You see, it doesn't matter what happens back on the island. Your friends may defeat my Lost Boys and take Henry's body back, but you and I both know, the body's not much good without the shadow, is it? So now that you see the prizes to be had, I'm sure you're going to accept my offer, aren't you?" He gives Rumple a push into the cave. "Go in, little brother, and play my game. I call it Regret or Blame."

Rumple allows himself to be pushed inside. He keeps his hand stretched out before him to that his light will show him where he's stepping, but he suspects it doesn't matter: he's still thinking in terms of the natural world, and this is Pan's realm. He's expected to fall, all right, but not from a simple trip over a stone.

He begins to breathe more heavily now and a cold sweat dampens his hair. He's had a dread, if not an outright phobia, of dark, underground places ever since his stay in Charming's mine-prison.

Pan's voice rings out behind him, bouncing softly off the cave walls. Rumple feels a warmth beside him and he casts a hasty glance to the right: Belle is beside him, studying the cave. The Storybrooke attire that she was wearing a minute ago has changed: she's now dressed in leather trousers and a velvet maroon doublet. Her hair is bound back and her mouth is drawn in a flat line. She's ready for war.

"The rules, Rumpie. You're going to square off with your past, and if you can come out again with your mind intact, you win. Sounds simple, yes? But it took me ages to prepare: you have so much damage in your past, I had trouble choosing which parts to use! But to make this a little more entertaining—oh, hell, let's be honest: to torture you into insanity—I've added a twist."

Rumple feels something cold and hard appear in the palm of his right hand. He brings the hand closer to the light in his left hand, and now he can see a gold coin emblazoned with the mask of tragedy. He rolls it over to see the obverse: the mask of comedy.

"At the start of each move, you'll flip this coin. Heads, and the round will consist of Blame. Tails, and the round will consist of Regret. I know how you'll play the Blame Game: you'll become defensive, make excuses, lash out with lies and accusations, and then retreat to lick your wounds. The Blame Game is easy for you: you've played it all your life. But the Regret Game, now that's a whole other matter, because when was the last time that anyone showed you any sympathy?" Pan laughs and gives Rumple a push.

He stumbles and the light in his left hand flickers out, but as Belle slides an arm under his shoulder to steady him, he discovers he doesn't need his light; he can see through the darkness, and on the walls of the cave the show is about to begin.

Pan's voice mocks him. "Flip the coin, dearie, and let's begin."

_Former Fairy Dust Mine, Three Hundred Nine Years After Rumple Became the Dark One_

Frankly, Rumple had expected better from Charming. Four months and nineteen days ago, the boy-prince and his little band of con artists had locked the Dark One in this secret cage, far far away from society, deep deep underground so no one could find him (and plenty of people were searching for him, too—opportunists who thought they'd swap his release for some tremendous price, because who would've guessed that the Dark One _intended _to be imprisoned?). Now Charming is sitting warm and cozy many miles away in the Spiral Castle with his wife the queen—his pregnant wife, pregnant with the savior. He's besieged with behests and requests and threats, because that's what governance is: a never-ending struggle to maintain the status quo when everyone around you, even those you consider friends, would tear it down. He takes it all on himself, sparing his wife, who's preoccupied not only with the normal fears of a first-time mother, but also with the fears instilled in her by the deposed Regina, who's now rattling the walls of the kingdom—and who's let it be known she possesses the Curse to End All Curses and won't hesitate to use it (her mentor will make sure of that).

Rumple would feel sorry for the boy—he used to respect the former shepherd (the connection of sharing a former professional brotherhood) and he has a soft spot for Snow—but not after this. Not after the way Charming has treated him.

For in this cold, damp underground prison cell, which the guards keep dusted with fairy dust because they know it inhibits his magic and makes him queasy, they've provided not a stick of furniture, not a blanket, not a book, not a coat, not a change of clothes, not a fireplace or a candle or a window. For his meals he's brought moldy bread and maggot-infested meat; the single bucket of water they provide him each morning—not enough to wash his body, let alone his clothes—isn't fit to drink: it tastes of sulfur, and that's on the days that the guards forget to piss in it.

Once they figured out he was well and truly imprisoned, and growing sick in body and mind, the guards realized they could taunt and torture him with impunity. The name calling, insults and threats, the slaps, the stick pokes and the thrown rocks, he's used to: he's had two lifetimes of bullying. It's when they talk trash about Belle that he literally climbs the walls, for Regina has spread her filth far and wide, and all of the Enchanted Forest knows what happened to the Dark One's Whore. This, then, is apparently Charming's idea of a rehabilitation program.

But Regina herself is an outlaw now. She visits often, coming in the form of some cave-dwelling creature so that she doesn't attract the guards' attention, and they speak at length of the details of the curse. She sees that he's weak and half-crazy in his prison and she thinks she outpowers him. She makes curse-related promises and she thinks she's outsmarting him. But she's all the company he has, and at least they're making progress on the curse. When she's gone he sits in a corner that the guards can't reach and he draws his knees to his chest and rocks back and forth, back and forth, reminding himself it's all for Bae, all for Love. And it's what the Dark One _deserves_.

_Neverland, Present Day_

He glances at Belle, who's watching him with encouragement and confidence in her eyes. If he survives Neverland and manages to find a way back to Storybrooke, as she and her blood-sister believe with every ounce of their innocent faith, he will drop to his knees at her feet, he swears he will, and he will tell her the secret still remaining between them, after all the other secrets he revealed to her in the Dark Castle: he will tell her he needs her.

And then he'll move heaven and earth to make certain he can finally carry out the plan they made in those last days in the Enchanted Forest: he'll marry her. He knows she'll have him in his entirety, monster and man.

Belle smiles at him, her love shining through her eyes. He lets the magic of that love wash over him: it's what Rumplestiltskin _deserves_.

He tosses the coin, snatches it from the dank air and flips it onto the back of his hand.

It's heads.


End file.
